


Silver Only Shines in the Moonlight (And I Rise With My Red Hair)

by yourguardianangel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Complete, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Grief, Happy Ending, Humor, Lydia is a BAMF, M/M, Magic, Romance, Scott is adorable, Smut, So is Isaac, Uncle Peter is a creeper, Vamp Stiles, Vampire OCs, Vampires, abuse of vampire lore, handjobs, multiple OCs - Freeform, so much sterek, sterek, vampire, vampire shenanigans, vampire!Stiles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-25 05:16:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourguardianangel/pseuds/yourguardianangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles died alone.</p><p>He didn’t honestly know what he had been expecting; he had made it a habit to hang out with (and occasionally fight) bloodthirsty supernatural creatures of the night, and that had become a more frequent occurrence after all of that Darach business a while back. As the warmth of his blood seeped steadily through his fingers and onto the cold, filthy floor, he realized that no one was coming, that no one would be there in time.<br/>Stiles couldn’t help the single whimper of utter helplessness.<br/>---<br/>Stiles becomes a member of the rapidly growing Beacon Hills supernatural population, to his own disgust, and along the way he finds out a thing or two about himself and the people he cares about most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I've Done it Again, One Year in Every Ten

**Author's Note:**

> Bracketed title and chapter titles are from Lady Lazarus, by Sylvia Plath. I thought it was fitting.
> 
> Warnings now for canon-typical violence, gore and heart-wrenching Death scene (but hey, you gotta die to join the undead folks). Also, heavy immediate grief reactions, so if you're not cool with that, probably not the chapter (or story, really) for you.

Stiles died alone.

He didn’t honestly know what he had been expecting; he had made it a habit to hang out with (and occasionally fight) bloodthirsty supernatural creatures of the night, and that had become a far more frequent occurrence after all of that Darach business a while back. But as the warmth of his blood seeped steadily through his fingers and onto the cold, filthy floor, and he slowly realized that no one was coming, that no one would be there in time, Stiles couldn’t help the single whimper of utter helplessness.

Derek had been so angry with him. _Stiles, for God’s sake_ , he had shouted at him, eyes glowing and a slowly healing cut along his cheek beaded with blood, _we told you to stay in the car. It’s not safe for you._ A howl and the sickening crunch of bones against a tree filled the clearing. He’d just been trying to help.

Wasn’t his fault that iron bats didn’t work on vampires as well as they did on every other dark creature he’d ever encountered. There had been black, empty eyes, and then he remembered nothing.

Stiles eyes flicked to the floor, where his phone vibrated on the hard concrete. Derek’s number rang out, the light dying, then again lit the screen angrily a few minutes later. Stiles dropped a heavy hand, slick with his blood, and flopped a numbing finger at the screen. It didn’t answer. Stiles gave a broken, gurgling noise of desperation. Flopped his hand again. The screen changed, steadily counting the seconds, and he heard Derek’s tinny voice rise up from the floor.

_“Stiles? Stiles, where are you, we’ll come and get you. Are you okay? Are those things still there?”_

Stiles’ voice wouldn’t’ work. He managed a choked gurgling sound, and nothing more. His heart flickered weakly in his chest, confused at what was going on, speeding up and slowing down as though trying to fit in a lifetime’s worth of work into the few minutes he had left.

_“Stiles?”_

He could barely support the single arm still trying to stem the flow and long, dark ribbons of his own blood trickled down his wrists and into his sleeves. The wetness had drenched the whole left side of his torso, pulsing from the shredded mess of his neck. Or what was left of his neck, anyway. His eyes blurred, and Stiles wasn’t sure whether it was from tears or from his body turning off the lights and packing up around him. He couldn’t breathe, the coppery taste of himself filling his mouth, and he tried one last time to muster through his drowning throat a cry for help. One last fuck you to the supernatural world. He had to. He took a blood-soaked breath, as far into his drowning lungs as he could.

“They’re gone. I… Warehouse. I’m…”

The air escaped his body in a shuddery jolt.

The darkness closed in.  
…

Derek practically threw himself from the driver’s side of the jeep and had to fight the urge to be sick. He was bombarded by the stench of human blood before he had even staggered to the heavy industrial door of the warehouse. The tracker in Stiles’ phone had worked a charm, but it was time that was the issue. Derek spared little thought to the others he had left behind at the fight. They’d been split up in the confusion, following one group or another, and Stiles had slipped through the cracks. Scott and Isaac would follow Derek as soon as Isaac could move.

Derek felt sick as he approached the door. There was so much bad that could be done to a person in an hour, let alone two, and Derek had called through the silent phone the whole drive there. He stretched his ears out, listening for a heartbeat, but the empty building had thick walls. No chance of picking anything up.

His heart thrummed in his chest in blind panic as he wrenched at the locked door. It groaned upon its hinges, and when it finally gave way he left distinct fingerprints in the rusted metal. The wolf in him was howling in fury as he scanned the cavernous room.

There.  
He followed the heavy iron-oxide smell to the far left side of the building, moving past enormous concrete pillars that blocked his view. He couldn’t hear anything, no breathing, no movement, no heartbeat at all. Maybe that was just because Derek’s own pulse was drumming far too loud in his sensitive ears, his breathing a rapid thunder crash in his chest, blocking out all others.

A howl rose from outside, followed by an answering call to the right; Scott and Isaac had arrived.

“Stiles!” Derek called. He rounded a pillar, the smell becoming more and more powerful, and god, how much blood must there be for that to be so strong-

Oh, God.

Derek ears rang in the silence. He froze in his tracks as his world crumbled around his head.

Again.

Stiles looked tiny. Curled against the wall, a dark stain was spreading from his body like an unreal shadow. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted in a slack and silent plea. One arm sat limp in his lap, coated in the slick blood from his wounds, and the other curled around the edge of his phone.

Stiles had died alone.

…

Scott half-carried Isaac through the open warehouse doors, following Derek’s scent through the concrete pillars. Isaac was still healing from the enormous gash in his side, a parting gift of the vampires. Scott had always been under the impression that vampires were creepy old dudes in capes or hot pale women in leather.

These creatures had been neither.

Their eyes had been ridiculously eerie; the colours inverted, white pupils surrounded by heavy black irises. Like they had trapped a full moon in their eyes, the vast expanse of midnight darkness and all.

The amount of teeth and claws had also been a bit of a surprise.

Scott tried to rein back the panic of the wolf as Derek’s smell grew stronger. The smell of blood grew more pungent, and it definitely wasn’t Isaac’s. Someone had to be hurt, and the wolf was struggling to run forward. Scattered threads of thoughts, _help pack help hurt bad no help must now_ were drumming through the primal channels of his brain. His feet tripped over each other a little; an effort to move Isaac forward just a little faster. Then he saw Derek cradling a small, bloodied form to his chest, a drenched hoodie, a freckled hand limp and pale to one side. He barely pushed Isaac towards the support of a column before he was sinking to his knees. The bones made a sharp cracking noise as they hit the filthy concrete, but Scott couldn’t feel them. He couldn’t feel anything. All traces of the wolf abandoned him, withdrawing deep within him in an effort to avoid this. Thoughts whirled through his mind in a numbing tempest and it was all Scott could do not to pitch over and throw up.

Scott should have been faster. Scott should have listened to Stiles.

Scott should have been there.

His ears pricked at the sound of a feeble whimper, raw and haunting and painful, so painful. The sound was coming from Derek, his forehead pressing against Stiles’, rocking him gently in his arms. One of Derek’s hands held the back of his neck, and the other rested against his side. Scott wasn’t sure whether it was because his eyes were going grey and fuzzy at the edges, and his head felt light and nauseous, but he could have sworn he saw a tear track its way down from Derek’s closed eyes. Derek’s lips moved in a silence, words that Scott couldn’t hear, against the shell of Stiles’ ear. Perhaps it was a goodbye. Scott’s chest felt empty and yet all too full as Isaac’s hand found its way against his back.

This should never have happened.

…

The darkness was filled with pain, and it was filled with silence. Stiles didn’t like it. Stiles didn’t feel like he was meant to be there. He began to panic, searching for light, desperate to move or talk or scream for help, but he couldn’t. Everything was silent, and painful, and _so damn still_ , and Stiles didn’t understand what had happened. Trust him to fuck up dying.

And then there was a noise. It was so faint, that at first Stiles thought he’d imagined it, and he tried to turn his head to follow it. He waited.

There it was again, shuddering, faint as a will o’ the wisp, and Stiles could swear that he knew that sound…

It was... He couldn’t… Was it…

…

Derek felt Stiles body twitch under his fingers, and fought the urge to throw up. He knew it was simply a part of a body shutting down; god knows Derek had seen enough bodies in his time to know what happens when their occupants are no longer… Well. Occupying. The knowledge didn’t stop the roiling lurch of his stomach or the choked whine that caught in his throat. He couldn’t do this, he thought. He couldn’t deal with losing another one. 

Not Stiles.

Derek pressed his cheek against Stiles’ feather-soft hair, feeling the warmth slowly seep away. He brushed his knuckles over the short crop of hairs at the base of his lack neck, and felt the drying blood go tacky under his fingers. He felt eyelashes flutter against his chin, and wrote it off as another spasm.

Derek was pretty sure that bodies shouldn’t usually able to raise their hands against your chest, though.

“Derek… Why… Are you smelling my hair?”

Derek’s eyes shot open. He jerked back from Stiles’ body, almost dropping him against the concrete. Stiles squinted his eyes in protest, and composed the single most beautiful bitch face Derek had ever seen.

“You are such a creeper,” Stiles said, huffing.

Derek let out a bark of a laugh, too high and too harsh, his lips curling into a tight smile. His hands shook, whether from relief or utter shock he was not sure, and he couldn’t formulate words, or movements. He listened for that unique, skipping heartbeat that let him know yes, Stiles was okay, and perfectly capable of snarking in the immediate wake of a near-death experience, thank you very much.

He heard nothing.

“What?” Stiles asked, craning his neck upwards in confusion and wincing. Derek could see the wound itself clearly now, all the blood having already drained itself away onto the dirty floor, and in a shaft of late afternoon sunlight he could see the ragged flesh _moving_. Stitching. Knitting back together.

“Derek, what’s happening to me?” Derek looked into Stiles’ frightened eyes, dread filling his stomach. He watched the dark pupils pale and the tiny veins in his whites pulse with black, like wolfsbane poison. His breath hitched. He didn’t need to be Deaton to figure out what was occurring before him.

“You’re… You’re turning, Stiles. You’ve already turned.” Derek heard Scott shift somewhere to his right.

 _“What?”_ Stiles voice squeaked, and he tried to sit up, his chest rising and falling in a way that was no longer necessary. He fumbled two fingers at the side of his own throat for a pulse, pushing himself out of the cradle of Derek’s lap, and Scott gave Derek a ‘what the fuck am I meant to do?’ look.

“Oh no. No, no, no. This is… This is not supposed to happen! Derek, what-” Stiles was on his feet faster than Derek's eyes could follow, and that was a new development. Stiles seemed to notice the dark stain on the ground, and raised his arms in horror at the crusting blood covering his torso. He looked down at his pale, reanimated hands, and then back up at Derek. 

_“I don’t wanna be dead,”_ he said. Derek stood at the same time that Scott did, making slow, deliberate movements forward so as not to startle him. Derek still couldn’t shift the weight of dread in his stomach, tightening it into a coiled knot, but the warmth of relief, regardless, still warmed the insides.

“Well congratulations, Stiles,” He said, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, to ground him.

“You’re not.”

…

Stiles longed for the panicked feeling of his heart pounding. He longed for the sound of his own blood blotting out the outside world, and he longed for the feeling of adrenalin coursing through his veins. However, none of that came, and Stiles was at sea within his own body. The light was too bright. The sounds were too clear, too loud, and far too _much_. He could hear the individual push of Isaac’s blood through his throat, hear the pressurised hissing of it through his veins. For crying out loud, he could _feel_ Derek’s pulse through his hand, resting on his shoulder.

Even, steady, beating. Comforting.

Stiles leaned slightly into the touch, taking deep breaths and closing his eyes. Focusing. He couldn’t meet Derek’s eyes, not yet. He wondered whether Derek had put his hand there for that reason, to anchor him down. He wouldn't put it past him. He wouldn't complain about it though, for that matter. 

“What do we do?” He finally asked. Stiles knew the answer before anyone voiced it. It was Scott that did so, his voice wavering with the slightest tremor.

“We go to Deaton.”


	2. Herr Dokter, Herr Lucifer

“Well, Stiles, I’m sorry to tell you, but I don’t think you will be able to get a tan ever again,” Deaton said. Scott snorted from behind the metal examination table, and Stiles shot him a narrow-eyed death glare. 

Heh, death.

Scott’s expression flicked from amused to apprehensive in a single beat of his heart. Which Stiles could hear.

“Whoa, dude. That just looks freaky when your eyes are like that,” Scott said.

“What?”

“Your, um, your eyes,” Scott said, making uncertain little circles around his own eyes. "The whole, like, full-moon-night-sky-I'm-gonna-eat-your-soul-for-breakfast thing." Derek gave him an incredulous 'Seriously? That's how you addressed it?' look, and Scott looked back at him, completely unaware. Stiles turned back to Deaton, who was watching him with a carefully composed expression.

“What does he mean?” Stiles could feel the panic coming back, and oh god, what else was wrong with him, how was all of this going to affect his life, or his unlife, he didn’t even know anymore-

Derek’s hand slid onto his shoulder again, and the pulse immediately pulled Stiles’s brain over to the curb. It was still a slow, even pace, familiar and calm, and that was reassuring. Maybe Derek knew something Stiles didn’t. Or maybe he just knew that Stiles needed someone right now who wasn’t freaking out around him. Deaton’s eyes went from the hand on his shoulder, up to Derek’s face, and he opened his carefully pursed lips.

“The eyes are just a result of your inexperience, Stiles. Much like with werewolves, your… Species, I suppose, has evolved to hide amongst the human population. Once you calm down, and focus on feeling alright, they’ll go back to a more conventional appearance.” He looked Stiles dead in the eyes.

“It’s going to be okay, Stiles.”

Stiles let out a long drag of air, feeling the breath move through his almost completely healed throat. It didn’t hurt, but it felt itchy and unnatural, but hey, if Stiles was used to one thing, it was shit being completely unnatural in his life. Unlife. Ugh. His eyes shut, and he worked on concentrating for once on one thing. _Normal eyes, normal eyes, please, no vampire eyes, come on brain,_ he repeated to himself, and when he finally opened his eyelids Deaton gave him a small smile.

“There,” Deaton said. “Not so hard.” Stiles looked up at Derek, who nodded once. There was that one question looming that Stiles simply couldn’t broach himself. He tried to open his mouth, but it had fixed itself shut. Trust vampirism to render him mute.

“So, what does this mean for Stiles? Has he got to sleep in a coffin or something?” Scott asked, and Stiles could have kissed him. Deaton shifted, considering.

“Well, coffins aren’t a necessity, unless you’re planning on wearing capes and spending the rest of your life preying on young females. I’d recommend a good set of black out curtains, and avoiding long periods of exposure to direct sunlight. It’s still fine to go outside during the day,” he continued over the top of Scott opening his mouth, who snapped it shut as the veterinarian proceeded.

“But I wouldn’t suggest sunbaking, because although it can’t kill you, it is very painful to treat a sunburnt vampire. Think of yourself as effectively rendered ginger from now on.” Isaac laughed, and everyone turned to stare at him. He petered off into nothing, smile dropping.

“It... Was funny,” he said lamely, and everyone turned back to Deaton again. Stiles was pretty sure that the muffled _whoomp_ sound was Scott smacking Isaac in the ribs.

“So, what about garlic? Silver? Crucifixes? Shapeshifting? Do I have to be invited into everywhere I go from now on?” Deaton _smirked_.

“Stiles, how did you get in here?”

“I came through the front door, how else would I have – oh.”

“Garlic shouldn’t be a problem, and crucifixes shouldn’t be either, unless it’s stabbed through your heart. Which, by the way, is far harder than it looks,” he said to the horrified faces around him.

”Silver may be a problem. In small doses, it’s pretty much treated in the same way as sunburn, but a big dose, or long exposure, could be fatal. The shapeshifting,” Deaton said, “is a Bram Stoker thing. You will need to rely on your friends to tell you if you’ve got food on your face, though. Reflections and photos are a thing of the past, unfortunately.”

“Is Stiles still gonna be, you know… Stiles?” Scott asked, and Stiles made a strange choking noise.  
“Wow, dude, I’m _right here_ -”

“Are you still you, even though you’re a werewolf, Scott?” Scott shifted his shoulders.

“Well, yeah, but-”

“Then that should be answer enough for you,” Deaton said sharply, and Stiles felt a wave of gratitude towards him.

“How much will he need to drink, and how frequently? What is safe for him?” Derek asked, and it was the first time he had spoken since they arrived. Everyone stilled.

“Depending on how much of his blood was left in his body when he turned, he may need to begin drinking anywhere between the next 24 hours, up to a week.” Deaton said, all trace of levity gone.

“His teeth will remain hidden until he first needs to drink, and after that they will be controllable, like his eyes. That will become harder when he’s hungry, but with experience it will become easier. Animal blood is… not ideal, but neither is attacking every human with a beating heart within a 50 mile radius. Supplementing your diet with raw meat, and local wildlife, should help to keep the hunger at a manageable level.” Deaton looked towards the others, flicking his gaze between Derek, Scott and Isaac in turn.

“Blood donations from any of you would be very helpful for Stiles at this point in time. Having at least partly-human blood in his system will help him to… Avoid doing anything he’ll regret.” Stiles heard Scott’s heartbeat falter slightly, but his face was set with determination. He nodded.

“We can do that,” He said, and looked towards Stiles. “Anything to help you.” Stiles tilted his head in mute acknowledgement.

“I’ll check my sources, but otherwise, that’s all I can tell you. It’s going to take you a while to get used to the change, Stiles,” he said, “But I believe you will be okay. If you boys want to come in tomorrow, we can get a few blood transfusions underway. Call if you need anything.” Deaton turned towards his medical store room, and Stiles knew a dismissal when he saw one. Everyone started to shift, and Derek gave his shoulder a squeeze before letting go and moving away. Stiles rolled to his feet. Derek was waiting for him at the door.

“I texted your dad for you. Told him you were staying at Scott’s house,” he said, holding out Stiles’ phone to him. He could still smell his distinctly-human blood on it, even though the phone itself had been wiped clean, and Stiles felt nauseated by the smell.

“…And where am I really staying?” Stiles asked, narrowing his eyes. Derek was impassive.

“My place.” He turned towards the jeep, sitting in the vet carpark, the last vestiges of sunlight reflecting dully from the hubcaps. Stiles followed, a hint of annoyance rising in his chest.

“Look, Derek, buddy, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer to plait each other’s hair and watch High School Musical, but I _literally died today_ (Stiles didn’t miss the flinch that ripples across Derek’s back at that) and I would _really like to go home and get some un-blood-smeared clothes_.”

“I can go and get you some of your own clothes if you want, or you can borrow some of mine, but I can’t let you go home yet.” Derek’s voice was firm, and tired. Stiles was positively bristling.

“I have no idea what you think you’re trying to _do_ here, Derek, but-” Derek turned suddenly, but not suddenly enough that Stiles couldn’t stop before walking into him. The man was seething, and barely keeping his newly-acquired blue eyes under wraps. Stiles stared him down.

“You heard Deaton, Stiles. He doesn’t know when you’re going to need to feed on blood yet, but when you do, it’s going to be the single hugest desire you have ever felt. What are you going to do if the urge kicks in and the only person around is your dad, huh? Are you going to drink him dry? How would you feel if you did that, Stiles, if you did that and no one was there to stop you?”

Stiles’ brain went white. He gaped for a moment, unable to recover from that little revelation, and Derek took the opportunity to turn and open the car door.

“Get in the car, Stiles. And don’t even think about driving.”

Stiles got in the car.

…

There was very little that caught Peter Hale by surprise. He prided himself on pretty much seeing and knowing all. It was his thing. Stiles was smug, therefore, when Peter came into the loft’s kitchen, humming to himself in little other than boxer shorts and a pair of slippers, and jumped at the sight of him. It was late. Derek was stirring two cups of coffee, and Stiles had his head laid on the dark granite bench top. It felt warm under his cheek, but that may have just been because he had pretty much lost all of his remaining body heat. He felt completely drained, emotionally and physically, but he allowed a little grin to grow on his face as Peter tilted his head to one side, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“It’s not that I’m complaining here,” Peter started, padding through the kitchen towards the fridge, “But it seems that our little Stilinski friend is rather quiet this evening. One would almost suggest that he was _silent as the grave.”_ Peter watched Derek out of the corner of his eye as he opened the fridge. Derek’s jaw worked silently, as though he was literally trying to bite back words. Stiles didn’t really want to deal with Peter’s crap right now, but he figured that if he left it up to Derek there would be even more viscera in his immediate future. And Stiles had dealt with enough gore for the day. His quota was _filled_.

“You’re not the only one who can pull a zombie-Jesus, you know,” Stiles said, and Peter bared his teeth in a not-quite-but-almost-feral grin.

“Oh, but Stiles, I can’t help but notice you’re missing one important part of the Lazarus process,” he replied, his fingers tapping out a steady heartbeat against the fridge door. Stiles could hear the drumming against the stainless steel clearly, in a way that he would never have been able to only hours before. Stiles swallowed a lump in his throat.

“Drop it, Peter,” Derek murmured, in an almost growl, but Peter’s eyes were fixed on Stiles now.

“Oh, but Derek, I want to know how it happened,” He slid over to the island bench, hands resting in front of Stiles and eyes never breaking contact. “Exactly how it happened.” He studied Stiles’ face, his neck, his arms. He had ditched the bloodied clothing in the bathroom, in favour of one of Derek’s swamping jumpers and a pair of pajama trousers tied tight around his hips. He didn’t know what Derek had done with the gory articles, and he didn’t care.

“Where’s the mark?” Peter asked, and Derek’s hand came down heavily onto the granite bench top.  
“ _Leave it,_ Peter,” Derek hissed, his eyes flashing blue.

“I was just-”

“Leave it alone.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed at Stiles, but he shrugged.

“Whatever. Don’t feed him after midnight, Derek, I hear they turn ugly.” He disappeared back to wherever he came from. Derek turned towards him, holding out the sugary, creamy monstrosity that Stiles had wanted.

“Is that really a thing, or was he just trying to reference Gremlins?” Stiles asked.

“Not a thing, Stiles, pay no attention to him. He’s a bit weird these days.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Derek’s lips twitched, and they drank their coffee in silence. Strangely, Stiles didn’t feel the usual buzz from it that he usually did, but he could feel the warmth of it sitting in his stomach as he was ushered up the spiral staircase.

“Derek, it’s fine, I’ll just take the couch, you really don’t have to…” He tried as he was corralled toward what he could only assume was Derek’s bedroom.

“Yes, I do Stiles,” He replied, “Because even if you’re not feeling tired, I am, and I won’t be able to hear you if you try and sneak out downstairs. From here, I can stop you from doing something stupid if I need to.” Stiles couldn’t argue with that. He allowed himself to be manhandled onto the bed, and rolled over to the far side when Derek climbed in after him. Everything smelled like Derek; the pillows, the sheets, the freaking _walls_ seemed to be oozing the warm scent of forest leaves, tangy cinnamon, and the one thing that Stiles could only really define as Derek.

“Derek?” He said quietly into the darkness.

“Yes, Stiles?”

“What if vampires don’t sleep?”

“Only one way to find out,” came the eventual reply.

The sound of Derek’s heart slowly let Stiles slip into the black.


	3. A Thousand Filaments

The sound was there again. Soft, so soft in the darkness. Stiles strained to hear it. He swore he had heard it before, but he didn’t know, he couldn’t know it, why would such a sound be here?

He struggled against the stillness, against the black, and he reached for that elusive sound, the sound that called him back-

….

Stiles found out the hard way that Derek was a snuggler. Not that it was a horrible, or a terribly hard thing to wake up to, a nose buried in the side of his neck, breathing damp warmth into his skin that he couldn’t manage on his own. Or to have an arm wrapped around his chest, pulling him in close like a blanket. Hell, it would have been pretty much a dream come true, if Stiles wasn’t suddenly _desperate to open the man’s veins like a fucking juice box._ His teeth were _sharp_ and _too large_ in his mouth. He pushed himself out of Derek’s arms in alarm, flailing onto the floor with an undignified little yelp, and scurried to the corner of the room. He huddled against the wall, as far from the sweet smell of Derek’s sleepy blood as he could. He heard the sheets rustle, and he had to stop breathing, stop looking, as Derek lifted his big stupid bleary-eyed head. His hair was sticking out _everywhere_ , and a tiny part of Stiles’ brain wished he was in a better state to appreciate that, or take a picture or something, because _damn_ that did not look either slick or dignified.

“Stiles? What-” He cracked open an eye, and must have seen something of the state he was in, because he let out a little huff of ‘oh’, and then climbed out of bed.

“Stay here,” Derek told him firmly, “I’ll be back in a moment.” He slipped from the room, and Stiles closed his eyes against the dizzying feeling. It was like nothing he had ever felt. His throat felt as though it was trying to turn itself inside out in an act of pure spite, and his skin was closing in on his skull like a car compressor on a glass windscreen. He would’ve counted his breaths, but he couldn’t breathe for fear of smelling _that amazingly terrifying smell_ , and he had no heart beat to count anymore. So he hummed in his head, a tuneless little thing that did very little to help, until he heard the naked padding of feet up iron stairs.

A tall glass of red was pushed in front of him.

“Go on,” Derek said, and Stiles didn’t need to be told twice. Derek watched his neck bob as Stiles chugged the whole thing in one go. He raised an eyebrow in tandem with his own glass of orange juice, sipping from it with his still sleep-relaxed lips. Stiles didn’t want to say that the glass of blood was the single most beautiful thing he had ever drank in his life, but even without a heartbeat anyone could tell he was lying. He smacked his lips together obscenely, and reached his fingers inside to scrape out the last dregs clinging to the glass. Derek reached out a hand to take it from him.

“I think that’s enough, Stiles,” he said, plucking it from his grip, “You got it all.” Stiles made a little whining noise that most would consider unmanly, but he was too sated to feel embarrassed. In fact, he needed more; he had to get every last bit of it. Stiles tried to reach up and snatch back the glass, moving faster than he thought he should be able to, but Derek caught his wrist and his eyes flashed blue in warning. Stiles _hissed_ at him, holding that challenging gaze and ready to _fight_ , and then he was suddenly drawing back. Stiles curled around himself again, all the fight slipping from him as he tried to wrap himself into a cocoon.

“I… I didn’t mean to do that,” he whispered, voice shaking a little. He never thought that he could just… _lose control like that_. The thought scared him. Stiles felt a heavy weight sinking into his chest as he realized for the first time that hey. Maybe being a supernatural creature wasn’t as easy as it looked. He leant his head against the wall, and let out a deep sigh. The foreign set of teeth was poking at his lips, a jagged and mismatched collection that were too big in his mouth. He concentrated on them as he had with his eyes, and in turn felt them retract. It was the small mercies, Stiles thought as his tongue poked at his regular old teeth. He couldn’t bear to look at Derek, embarrassed by his actions, but he could smell the still-raw wound on the back of Derek’s hand.

“Sorry,” he muttered.  
“Feeling better?” Derek asked wryly. Stiles groaned.

“Thank you,” he murmured, and Derek gave him a look that made Stiles think he hadn’t been told that very often. He made a note in the back of his mind to smack Isaac and Scott upside the head in the near future.

“You, uh… You have some…” Derek wiped the back of his hand against his chin, and Stiles mimicked the movement. There was a tiny smear of blood on his hand, and he was quick to swipe it away with his tongue. It was still warm, and holy _god_ that tasted good. He looked up at Derek from underneath his eyelashes, and huh. Derek’s eyes looked stunned, and Stiles heard his pulse stutter faintly. Stiles faltered, his tentative smile wilting. He felt ashamed; he must look like an absolute monster. Derek rubbed the back of his head, turning away.

“I’m uh… I’m going to have a shower. We’ll go to Deaton’s after that.” Derek made himself scarce before Stiles had time to reply.

Stiles let his head drop onto his knees, and wondered miserably if anyone would see him the same way ever again.

…

Being a Sunday, the clinic car park was blessedly empty, and no one noticed the unusually pale teenager slouching along behind the scruffy man in what looked like an artfully bloodstained dark shirt. The mountain ash barrier was raised, and when Derek and Stiles opened the veterinarian’s doors, they were greeted with the sight of Isaac. He was surrounded by a long, glowing red tube protruding firmly from his arm, in which was connected by the blunt end of a silver needle. Stiles took one look and turned heel, but was caught by Derek’s annoyingly hard chest, and broad hands holding his arms steadily as he directed him backwards.

”Think of it as practice, Stiles,” Derek hummed over the unbroken refrain of _nononononononononono_ escaping from Stiles’ mouth.

“It’s not the blood,” Stiles hissed as he was dragged back to the bench, cringing away from Isaac’s curious gaze, “I just don’t do well with _needles_.” Derek huffed, an almost laugh, and Scott chose that moment to come around the corner wearing latex gloves and carrying a _damn big-ass needle_. Stiles felt an ominous lurch in his stomach.

“Glad you’re here, Derek, you can be next,” Scott said, not even looking up as he wandered over to check on Isaac’s pouch. Stiles could almost see Deaton there in Scott’s eyes as he turned around. He smiled, one of his earnest, lop-sided smiles.

“Hey Stiles,” he said warmly, and Stiles felt a tiny bit of tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding leak out of his shoulders. Scott was a picture of okay; even heartbeat, clear eye contact, and no fidgeting. He didn’t seem to mind the whole… Stopped heart thing. Or at least, he wasn’t blatantly afraid or repulsed by him. Which was a good start.

“Hey,” Stiles said, returning the smile. “Not worried any more that I’m not really me now that I’ve got fangs?” He saw Derek visibly flinch, like he’d been hit. Scott gave a guilty shrug.

“It was a dumb thing to ask, man, and I’m sorry. I just wanted to be sure.” Stiles shrugged.

“No biggie. I was kind of worried myself.” Stiles slid up onto the metal bench, eyes still avoiding the tubes sticking out of Isaac. He took a curious sniff of the air, tentative.

Isaac’s blood smelled differently to Derek’s; tangier. More like summer oranges, where Derek’s was rich chocolate. Huh. He’d insisted on eating a large breakfast before they had left, on top of the blood, and Stiles was glad that he had. He felt almost no desire to hack at Isaac’s arm like an animal, but the tiniest buzz of hunger was still there, at the back of his brain, and he pushed it down hard. Best to not indulge that from the beginning. Derek moved to the opposite bench and sat down next to Isaac, carefully avoiding the cords that Scott was disconnecting from his arm. Isaac hissed when the needle was removed, but the skin had healed before even a drop of blood escaped. Scott threw the needle into a biohazard bin and made his way over to Derek. He swabbed Derek’s arm with antiseptic, and braced the point of the needle against the exposed skin.

“This could hurt,” Scott said, and Derek rolled his eyes.

“I’ve handled worse,” He reminded him, but he still gave the tiniest of flinches as the end sank into his arm. Scott connected the tube to the end of the needle, and Derek’s blood swelled upwards like a pressure fountain. Scott hung the empty pouch up on an I.V. and settled into the chair that Isaac had vacated and began to prep himself. Isaac, now sipping on a can of lemonade and looking completely at ease, came to sit next to Stiles.

“Where’s Deaton?” Stiles asked, looking away as Scott located a vein in his arm and repeated what he had done with Derek.

“He had to go and do some paperwork runs, but he let us in and told us to do whatever we needed to do. He told me to lock up when we’re done, and not to leave any body fluids lying around.” Scott laid back, eyes closing, as his blood pulsed out of his body and into the tube. He smelled like pine needles, deep and natural and familiar. Stiles smiled. It suited him. He shifted over as Isaac came to sit next to him. Their shoulders brushed, and Isaac’s whole torso jolted.

“Your skin is _freezing!_ ” he said, eyes Disney-princess wide. Stiles felt his throat closing up and he couldn’t think of anything to say, and he wondered whether vampires could cry-

“Is this cold to you?” Isaac asked, and suddenly there was the damp side of a can pressed against his arm. Stiles looked down at it, rebooting. He looked back up at Isaac, his face alit with innocent curiosity.

“Uh… No,” Stiles said finally. “No, it really isn’t. In fact, it’s kinda on the warm side.” He shifted himself and pressed the can against his wrist.

“That’s, like, summer swimming pool temperature. I’d swim in that,” He said, and Isaac’s face broke into an enormous smile.

“That is so cool! You could, like, go swimming in the Alaskan ice lakes and not feel a thing! I wonder if you can drown,” Isaac mused, his thoughts trailing elsewhere, “but that would be so damn cool to see, Stiles, you have no idea.” Stiles couldn’t help but smile at Isaac’s sheer enthusiasm. They spent a large portion of the day simply musing all of the various things they could get Stiles to do, Scott chiming in occasionally with a piece of Deaton-inspired logic to either enhance or disprove an idea. Derek remained silent and stoic throughout, only moving when he needed to change blood bags. Derek drained himself of three full bags of blood before Scott insisted that he stop. 

“You’re going to drain yourself dry, Derek,” Scott told him firmly when Derek had tried to protest. “Go and have a drink of something. Have one of the sandwiches, man. You look even more grey and bleak than usual.” Derek had grumbled, but acquiesced. By the time the afternoon sun was treading into the sunset area, they had in total seven bags of blood, and all three of Stiles’ friends had lost their earlier zeal.

“Let’s go get some burgers,” Scott suggested to Isaac.

“Burgers, then bed. I feel dead on my feet. No offense,” he added, and Stiles threw a little smile his way.

“None taken,” Stiles said, and he stopped before they reached the cars. Everyone turned to look at him, and he felt very small and vulnerable in the warm sunlight.

“I, uh, I just wanted to say, thanks. Thanks guys for doing this for me. It… It means a lot.” He rubbed his arm with one hand, and looked at the ground. A hand weighed strong and warm upon his shoulder. 

“You would have done it for us, Stiles. A thousand times over. It’s the least we could do,” and Scott pulled Stiles into a crushingly tight hug. Stiles sank into it, the heartbeat around him, and he rested his head against Scott’s shoulder.

“Thanks,” Stiles whispered, and Scott briefly tightened his arms in acknowledgement. He released him, and with a brotherly sort of pat on the cheek and a grin, Scott turned away and headed to his mom’s car with Isaac. Derek was standing there, waiting, a cooler full of blood in his arms, and a raised eyebrow on his face.

“Can I stay with you again tonight? I don’t think I can deal with my dad just yet,” Stiles asked, shuffling his feet forward uncertainly.

“Of course,” Derek said gruffly. He turned on his heel without a word, and Stiles followed.


	4. I Do it So it Feels Like Hell

Stiles came back to consciousness in pretty much the same state as yesterday, with Derek wrapped around him for all the world like Stiles was a giant pillow. Stiles wondered whether Derek knew about his rather affectionate sleeping habits, and what he would think if Stiles brought it up. Stiles had been unsure what the arrangements would be after last night, whether he’d take the couch, or maybe a rafter or something, but Derek had jerked his head towards the stairs in an unmistakeable gesture, and Stiles had followed him silently. It was nice to have someone there next to him, protecting him, and protecting others _from_ him. Derek shifted in his sleep, pressing his warm chest against Stiles’ back, and Stiles took a moment to appreciate that feeling. He doubted he would ever get that opportunity again. He could feel the hunger for blood inside him, drumming underneath the surface where his pulse should have been, but it wasn’t an overwhelming sensation. Stiles pried himself loose of Derek’s death grip of clinginess and headed downstairs, figuring that a big breakfast of regular food would stave away the hunger whilst he was at school. He opened the fridge, rubbing at his eyes. It was surprisingly well-stocked. He ignored the blood pouches; he needed to keep those as a last resort. It was the steak that eventually caught his eye. He licked his lips. It was dark red, and raw, and Stiles may have been drooling a little bit. A part of his brain told him _ew, gross man, don’t_ but another part was cooing to him. _The steak would probably help more than cereal to keep me under control,_ Stiles thought to himself, and with a shrug sat down on one of the kitchen bar stools. Stiles heard a door open upstairs, and the padding of feet. Cora came around the corner, eyes still mostly shut in stubborn protest against consciousness. She raised her head from the coffee pot, sniffing the air, and muttered to herself.

“Why does it smell like someone bled out in our kitchen?”

“That’d be my fault,” he said casually, revelling in her full-body jump in his direction. _Werewolves really mustn’t be used to people sneaking up on them,_ he thought to himself smugly. She narrowed her eyes, and tilted her head in a stunning resemblance to Peter. Stiles took a deliberately casual bite of the meat, letting the red juices flow through his mouth.

“Why aren’t you breathing, Stiles? Why can’t I hear your heartbeat?” Her hair was sticking up on one side. It was distracting.

“Vampires. Got bit.” He said around a metallic bite of raw meat. It honestly tasted far better than he thought it should have. She watched him a moment, then shrugged.

“Okay. Cool. Welcome to the Beacon Hills fucked-up mythical creatures club, then.” Stiles gave her a thumbs up.

“Not as awesome as you guys make it look, to be honest. But hey, maybe now I can buy a leather jacket without looking like a tool,” Stiles said. Cora flicked her eyes over to him, a smile tugging at the edges of her lips.

“Stick to the dorky t-shirts, Stiles,” she said, and slipped away towards her lair. She wasn’t nearly as quiet in her movements as she usually was, but perhaps that was just Stiles’ hearing improving. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

____

Stiles smiled down at the screen, and was reminded again of how much he adored his best friend.

 __he tapped out on the keyboard, then stood to clean up his plate. He scratched out a quick thank you for Derek on the back of a grocery bill, left it on the ground in front of his bedroom door, and scooped up his car keys from the kitchen bench. He stubbornly ignored the traitorous thought that hey, the keys looked pretty good on that bench, they should really be there more often. He was almost at the door when he paused, hand poised on the door handle, and then turned back to the fridge. He gingerly removed a packet of blood from the Styrofoam cooler they were living in, itself kept in the vegetable crisper, and stashed it in his backpack. Better safe than sorry, he thought as he returned to the door, and headed to school.

…

Stiles was really proud of his control throughout his first two classes. He allowed himself to relish in the way he was able to tune out the beating of hearts around the classrooms after a few minutes and zero in on what the teacher was saying. He swore that he had never been able to concentrate better, and he allowed himself to tentatively hope that maybe this whole vampirism thing would be okay.

Then he made the mistake of entering the cafeteria.

He should have realized that it was too much to ask of himself. But he slid into his usual routine easily, following Scott and laughing at something he said, and then he walked through the cafeteria doors and was hit. Suddenly and without warning, he was surrounded by the sound of not twenty beating hearts, not twenty smells of terrifyingly appetizing flesh, but _hundreds._ Some were faster and jumpier than others, sounding the way coffee felt. Others were slower, smoother, like honey on toast. Stiles felt his teeth elongate in his mouth, cutting his lips. He turned tail and ran, blindly. If he had a heartbeat, it would have been pounding, from exertion and panic and _need, so much need._ No one paid attention to a skinny pale kid careering around the corner of a hallway. Stiles passed a tousled mess of red hair that called “Stiles?” just as he slammed a classroom door shut. The room was blessedly empty, and Stiles tried to fight the dark edges of his vision, the drumming desire in his mind, so strong that it was actually _hurting_ just to sit there when there was so many options just behind the door-

“Stiles? What the hell are you doing Stiles, you almost crashed into me!” A fist smacked against the door, and Stiles could hear the lighter heartbeat of Lydia on the other side.

“Lydia… You, you have to go away,” he choked, and the banging stopped for a moment. “You have to go away _right now_.”

”Stiles? Stiles, what’s wrong? _Why won’t you let me into this room, Stiles?_ ” Her voice dipped higher, and her heartbeat tripped over itself in the first signs of worry, and _god_ it sounded good. Her fists pounded harder on the door again, her voice still talking to him in louder and higher tones, but Stiles couldn’t hear it over the chaos. War waged within his own mind. The human grappled with the dark, foreign need inside his body, and he couldn’t do anything but curl up further, his nails digging into his arms until it started to hurt. He needed blood _so badly_ , right then, that was what would make the pain and the howling in his mind stop, would bring the beast under control, but he couldn’t reach his bag-

Lydia.

“Lydia. Lydia, listen to me for a moment,” he panted, and he really needed to stop breathing because every time he took a breath he could taste her white lily scent on his tongue. The banging stopped again.

“Lydia, I need your help,” he started.

“Stiles, tell me what’s wrong, or I swear to god-”

“I need you to get me my backpack, Lydia, right now. It’s, it’s in my locker, it should be, and it’s really important, _please, Lydia_. Do this for me.” He tried not to let his voice show the strain, but he couldn’t fully hide the tremble at the end. Her heartbeat paused ever so slightly, uncertain.

“If you’re just sending me on a goose chase because you’re having a panic attack I am going to _kill you,_ , Stiles,” she threatened through the door, and Stiles couldn’t help but give a weak, ironic huff of a laughter at that.

“I’m not, Lyds, I promise, just please go _quickly_ ,” he whispered, and then he heard high heels pounding away down the hall. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fumbled a shaking hand towards it, curling around himself further as he answered.

 _“This had better be good, Stiles, I’m running in Jimmy Choos,”_ Lydia puffed into the phone. He could hear her rapid breaths and the bouncing sound that comes with trying to rush down a flight of stairs.

“Please don’t trip, Lydia, I’d hate to see you get brain damage,” he tried to say lightly.

 _“I’d still be smarter than you,”_ she quipped, and a feeble smile latched onto his lips.

 _“I’m here, and I’ve got it, I’ll be back soon,”_ Lydia said, and Stiles was sure that no sweeter words had ever been spoken. He heard her footfalls in the hallway as she continued to talk to him, to distract him, the entire way there, and she slid to a stop in front of the door.

“Stiles, you’re going to have to let me in if you want the bag,” she reasoned through the door, but Stiles could hear her heartbeat skipping rapidly against her rib cage, and _oh no_ he was not letting that happen, but the citrusy smell of Isaac’s blood was seeping through the classroom door.

“Lydia, you can’t come in yet, you just can’t… I need you to throw the bag into the room when I open this door, okay? As far into the room as you can.”

“Stiles, you are being ridiculous, what is going on with you-” He gritted his too-sharp teeth in frustration.

“Please, Lydia, just do this one more thing, on three, okay?” He braced a hand on the door handle.

“One,”

“Stiles, what-”

_“Two,”_

“Three,” he said, and he opened the door a fraction. The bag skidded off, into the far side of the classroom and under the desks. Stiles was on it before he even registered moving, tearing through the flimsy fabric and holding up the blood pouch like it was an epi pen, headless of who was watching or who may be near. He didn’t care. He bit into the blood pouch and it ran into his mouth in a sudden release of ‘ah’, coating his tongue with warmth, and the shadows settled back into the recessed of his consciousness. The door snicked shut, and Stiles looked over, suddenly aware and alert. Lydia was watching him with wide eyes.

“Is that blood?” she whispered. She looked at his eyes and visibly shrank away from him. He quickly concentrated on switching them back, on withdrawing his fangs, but it was too late.

“Stiles, what’s happened to you?” She backed up against the door, but she didn’t immediately bolt, and her heart rate was only slightly raised. Stiles proceeded with caution.

“Lydia, I need you to not freak out on me right now, okay? There’s a horde of vampires in town at the moment and we tried to deal with them ourselves without the proper research-”

“Are you telling me you got bitten? Is that why your eyes were… Like that?” She watched him warily as he stood up. He moved slowly, hands out in front of him and open, in a way he hoped looked less like a predator and more like a non-threatening entity. He was full now, the overwhelming desire manageable almost instantly after feeding, and he felt safe in approaching her. He was in control again. He thought about lying in answer to her question, but even without supernatural hearing, Lydia had always been able to see through his bullshit like wet tissue paper.

“I… Yes. Yes, I was bitten, and I was changed. I thought I was starting to get it under control. I was wrong. I… I got overwhelmed for a moment, and if you hadn’t been there to help me out, I probably would have had to jump out of a window or something. I may be a mo-” Stiles throat caught briefly on the word, closing up a little at the thought, and he had to look away. His mind cast about and focused upon Scott, of all people. Scott, who’d come to terms when he got the bite. Who’d accepted it, and used it to his advantage. Stiles’ situation really wasn’t that different to Scott’s, if he really thought about it. He was just lucky enough to already have the support in place. Stiles cleared his throat, and started again.

“I may be a monster now, but I don’t want to hurt people,” he said with conviction, a challenge set into his eyes that must have convinced Lydia finally that it was okay. She nodded.

“So what are you going to do to get it under control, Stiles? I can’t just run to get you your bag every time you need a fix. It’s just plain impractical.” Stiles thought about it for a moment.

“Well, so far Derek, Scott and Isaac are taking turns at donating blood for me, and I’m going to have to learn pretty soon to hunt I think, because I can’t just live off human blood. That’s not going to work for very long at all, and I’ll need to start the switch as soon as I can.” Lydia nodded, and Stiles could practically see the thoughts flying through her head. She was probably composing spreadsheets for a blood weaning program as they spoke.

“Learning control is going to be hard, Stiles, anything that requires concentration will be. From the sounds of it, you may need to let time do its thing. And avoid crowds.” She gave him a look.

“Coming to school, what, less than 48 hours after being turned? That’s one of the dumbest ideas I’ve ever heard,” She said, and Stiles gaped a little.

“How did you know that…?” He asked, and Lydia shrugged.

“Perks of being a banshee, I guess. I can kind of… _Feel_ when you died.” She pulled a face.

“It’s kind of gross, really.” Stiles had to remind himself that he wasn’t the only one adjusting to the idea of being something different to what he thought he was. A little piece of respect fell on top of what was already an enormous pile that Stiles had for the red head in front of him. The bell went, and Lydia let a mask of confidence slip into pace over her face. She flicked her hair, and started to turn.

“You owe me one, Stiles,” she said over her shoulder. “And I hope you like the taste of _ginger_ , because your little wolf pack won’t be able to keep me from doing my part in educating your new… _culinary tastes,_ ” she smiled at her own little pun, and swept from the room into the now-boring smelling crowd. Stiles let out a silent breath of relief, and straightening himself, joined the masses on their way to class. He ran into Scott, whose wide eyes and rapid heartbeat told Stiles that he’d been looking for him. Isaac was close on his heels.

“Stiles! Are you okay? You left so quickly, and I couldn’t hear you anywhere-” he stops, eyes widening just that little bit further. He must have been able to smell the fresh blood on him, but Stiles bet that his nose wasn’t so attuned to the individual scents of each person.

“It’s okay, Scott, I didn’t hurt anyone,” he assured, showing him the empty plastic blood bag. He saw Scott’s shoulders deflate slightly in relief. He shook his head.

“I didn’t really think you’d- I was just worried that- I know you’d never-” and Stiles heard the steadiness of his heartbeat, the utter absence of a lie, and he felt relief of his own.

“I know. It’s okay, Scott. It’s fine,” he said, touching his shoulder briefly. They collected their books, and Stiles was proud to overcome his own fears and face the next two classes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be some actual plot soon, guys! The vampiric horde is still around, and they'll make an appearance. :) so don't go away!


	5. O My Enemy, Do I Terrify?

Stiles was glad that he had supernatural reaction times these days, because he was certain that he would have hit the vampire in the middle of the road if he hadn’t had those spare milliseconds to hit the brakes. One second the road was empty, shadow-filled forest glancing by on both sides, the next the vampire seemed to have stepped out of nowhere. The Jeep screeched to a halt, and Stiles was out of the vehicle before the engine had cut out. He noticed another one, standing on the edge of the road in silence. The vampire in front of his car smiled, a feral grin, and Stiles hoped that he didn’t look so much like an animal as this one did. He could smell the rotting leaf litter on the man’s coat, a ragged and filthy thing that he obviously cared little for, saw the pale crescent shaped bite on the man’s neck where it had scarred over. It was mirrored on the other’s neck as well, Stiles could see it from this distance, and he swore that there were strips of flesh in the others matted hair. He got the feeling that Gross-Coat here was the more powerful of the two, the other just along as a silent threat. They were not the whole of the horde, not by a long shot, just a couple of scouts, or messengers, perhaps. Stiles had very little patience left for these creatures; he had just lived through the Monday from hell, he had a tonne of homework to do, and he still had no idea how he was going to break the news to his dad. Frankly, he was pissed.

“What do you want?” Stiles called, suddenly itching to get his fangs out. “Because I was literally a millisecond from just going ‘fuck it’ and running you down. Stay right where you are, man, I can smell you from here.”

Gross-Coat merely watched him, amused. Stiles glared back.

“I was sent to offer proper greetings to you, fledgling,” the vampire said, his voice a low purr.

“Thanks, but I don’t want them,” he said, tensing his muscles in preparation to _move_ , whatever that entailed, as the vampire slid around the car. Stiles took a step back, and Gross-Coat’s grin widened.

“You don’t have a choice, child. You were turned. You’ll start feeling the pull towards us soon. To your kind. We’ll wait for you, child. We’ll watch. You’ll be ours soon.” Stiles felt an iciness sink into his stomach.

“What do you mean, pull? Like to your hoard?” Stiles asked, but the vampire just flashed his moon-eyes and said,

“You shall see, child. You shall see. Just wait for the full moon…” he slipped away into the tree line like a shadow at night, the other following behind, and Stiles fought the urge to kick something.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Stiles climbed into the jeep, but didn’t turn the key. Deaton hadn’t told him any of _that_. Stiles didn’t know whether he could trust that inhuman creature, but it didn’t have any reason to lie, right? Maybe it was just trying to scare him into joining them on his own. But the iciness didn’t shift, and he turned the key of his car with a furtive glance into the impenetrable tree line. He resolved to have a serious talk with Deaton about the… _issues_ that had been brought to light.

Stiles was starting to see the perks of curling up in a crypt and sleeping for a hundred years.

…

Stiles had long learnt that there was no rest for the damned, and that when it rains, you better bring your fucking fishing boat because going to fucking _pour_. This was exactly what Stiles thought as he turned into his driveway, where there was a police cruiser already waiting, and a leather-clad werewolf, pale-faced with fury, leaning against the wall. He groaned aloud, and didn’t even care whether the sound of the Jeep’s engine covered it or not.

Great.

Just perfect.

Stiles couldn’t help the extra force he put into slamming the Jeep’s door as he climbed out, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He ignored the ominous sound of cracking glass. He flicked a single glare at Derek, and moved to slouch into the house. Derek followed.

“Were you going to tell me?” Derek growled.

“About what?” Stiles asked. He couldn’t avoid the conversation, but that didn’t mean he had to make it easier for Derek. He hit the front doorstep, and a warm hand pinned his shoulder. Stiles turned around sharply to face him, a challenge in his eyes.

“About _school_ , today, Stiles, what the hell were you thinking!” His face contorted in a strange mixture of emotions. He took a disbelieving breath of air, building up momentum. Stiles let him go.

“You should have called me, Stiles! I had to hear it from _Isaac_ that you had pulled a Houdini on them in the cafeteria, and had to lock yourself in a classroom so you didn’t hurt anyone! You have to be more careful, Stiles. You were lucky that it was just Lydia there and not someone we don’t know, and you are _extremely_ lucky that you didn’t hurt anyone! What else would I be here for?” Stiles had listened enough, and he jumped in on the opportunity to speak like a freight train on a railway track.

“Oh, _I don’t know, Derek,_ maybe you’re here because I was just told by my fucking _vampire buddies that I’m going to develop a hive mind and live like an animal with them! Maybe there’s that!_ Who, by the way, are still hiding out in the woods and eating people for shits and giggles! Or _maybe_ , maybe you wanted to talk about how I have to tell my dad that I’m a member of the fucking _living dead_! And I have no idea how he’s going to deal with that! Or maybe, hey, maybe you wanted to ask me how it _felt to die_ , Derek. Because nobody has actually asked me yet, and I can tell you. I remember _every. Last. Bit. _”__ Stiles had pulled him close, by the scruff of his jacket, until they were almost nose to nose. Stiles could feel Derek’s rapid breath against his face, and he wondered when exactly Derek had stopped trying to seem overpowering and their roles had switched. Derek’s eyes were filled with something Stiles couldn’t read, like shattered glass was tearing him apart from the inside. Stiles let the tension drain out of him slowly, and his hand started to uncurl from the leather lapels.

__“Or maybe,”__ Stiles whispered, eyes never leaving Derek’s, “God forbid, maybe you just wanted to talk.”

__The door caught both of them by surprise. Their heads whipped around at the same time towards the opening, where the sheriff stood. He looked small, and uncertain._ _

“Stiles?” His father said, his voice quiet and slow. “What did you mean, when you said that you died? Are your eyes like that because of vampires? Did he let this happen?” Stiles stood in shocked silence, gaping. The sheriff’s expression hardened.

__“Get inside this house right now. _Both of you._ ” __he said, and there was no room for arguments. He stepped back to let them through, and Stiles turned to close the door behind him. He heard the slam of flesh into wall and turned, eyes switching immediately and fangs lengthening in preparation. If Derek was throwing around his father like a fucking ragdoll Stiles was going to find a nice deep hole and fill it with enough mistletoe and wolfsbane to keep a fleet of freaking werewolves down-

Well, that was different.

__“You let Stiles die!”__ the sheriff’s voice shook with fury and emotion, his wiry fists pinning Derek against the wall. Stiles took a second to be impressed that Derek’s feet were hanging a solid inch from the ground, before moving to intervene. Why wasn’t Derek fighting back? Helping himself?

__“You told me yourself that you would keep him _safe,_ Derek!” __ He punctuated the word with a solid whump of Derek’s head against the wall.

__“__ But you _ _didn’t!__ You _ _promised__ me Derek, _ _I wouldn’t lose him!”__ Stiles put his hands on his father’s shoulders, pulling him back, and Derek fell to the floor. He breathed in a ragged gulp of air and looked up at them both, the sheriff struggling against Stiles’ grip and Stiles holding him back from hurting himself. Stiles’ father was panting rapidly, and he seemed to let all of the fight out of him in one big go, turning from fury to grief in seconds.

“No. No, not again…” he started whispering to himself, turning away from Stiles’ hold, and Stiles reached out again. Derek moved to stand up, and Stiles gave him a hard look.

“Go _away_ , Derek. We can talk about this later,” he hissed, and when he turned back the werewolf was gone.

It was the small mercies sometimes.

His father was standing a few feet away, swaying on his feet and a hand combing harshly through his hair.

“Dad, Dad, look at me, look at me, dad,” Stiles said, holding his dad by the shoulders and trying to meet his father’s eyes. His father’s chest was rising and falling randomly, a hitching, juddering motion, and his wet eyes were searching the walls.  
“He let you die… He let you die, Stiles… Stiles I can’t… I can’t deal with this again… Not with you…” his voice was so broken, and pitiful, and raw. Stiles put one cold hand onto his father’s cheek, turning his father’s face towards him.  
“Dad, dad, I’m still here, okay? I’m still here. I’m still me. Just like Scott was still Scott after he got bit by the alpha, I’m still me after the vampire. Look dad,” He held his dad’s gaze on his own, and focused on letting his pupils go from white to black and back again. His dad jolted, watching him the whole time through it.

“Still me, okay? It’s still me. A heartbeat won’t change that, dad. I’m not going to leave you.” His father met his eyes, the panic and the overwhelming grief pounding in every vein. His breathing began to slow, and something Stiles said must have held some reassurance, because he collapsed in slow motion like a deflated balloon. He sank into Stiles’ arms, clutching him tight. He buried his face in Stiles’ neck, and made an undignified, guttural noise.

“It’s okay, dad, I’m here. It’s still me. It’s still me,” he murmured into his father’s hair.

__”I’m sorry,” his father whispered, small noises still escaping him._ _

__“Don’t be,” Stiles replied, so quietly that he wondered if his father even heard him. The shudder in the sheriff’s chest told him he could. He straightened._ _

__“ I just… It was such a shock, and I couldn’t…” He stopped, focussed on breathing. The sheriff’s face was reddened, and his cheeks were tracked with salt. He took a deep, shuddering breath._ _

__“I’m okay. It’s all okay. It’s going to be fine. We can deal with this. We dealt with werewolves, we can deal with one vampire. I’m sorry.” He pulled Stiles into a crushingly human hug, and Stiles let himself be held for a moment before returning the sentiment. His dad held onto the back of his neck and looked him dead in the eye._ _

__“Whatever I need to do, Stiles, I’ll do it. You know that. I’ll never eat garlic again if I have to.”_ _

__Stiles couldn’t help the strange, raw laughter that escaped him. He couldn’t actually stop it, either, the laughter building unsteadily in him and his dad watched in confusion as Stiles giggled and snorted entirely on his own. He flailed a hand at his father, pulling him in close again, and he was still laughing as he said,_ _

__“I love you so much, dad, but that won’t be necessary.” Stiles felt the sheriff frown against him._ _

__“But I thought- You both mentioned- Aren’t you a…”_ _

__“… Vampire? Yes. But apparently the TV has been telling us LIES, dad,”_ _

“What a surprise,” he said, and Stiles appreciated the little note of sarcasm.  
Stiles ran his father through the same information that Deaton had given him. He swore that his dad was going to pull out his little Sheriff’s Notebook and start taking down important points throughout, he was so focused on what Stiles was saying. He had put extra emphasis on the point that it hadn’t been Derek’s fault in any way, shape or form, and just an unfortunate set of circumstances. By the end, Stiles had managed to talk himself into believing that it was a statistical inevitability that he was going to be turned by some form of supernatural creature, purely for posterity’s sake. Stiles made them both a healthy dinner for two, and if Stiles’ meat was a little more on the raw side than his father’s, there was no comment made. His father ruffled the back of his head as he passed him on the way to bed, laying a kiss against the crown of his hair. He placed a whispered “I love you, Stiles,” there that got an “I love you Dad” in return. His father disappeared upstairs, and Stiles suddenly had no interest in his assembled litany of worksheets and assignments. He rubbed the back of his head, and instead pondered the afternoon. Honestly, with all the potential scenarios whizzing through his head on the ride home, that was not at the top of his choices. In his head, he had hoped to sit his father down, show him his eyes and reassure him of his intact humanity despite the fangs, completely circumventing any emotional breakdown. He was going to use puns, people. Stiles was going to _kill_ Derek.  
He waited until he heard his father’s heartbeat even out before he pushed open the door to his own darkened room.

__“You’re not as sneaky as you think you are,” Stiles said, resigned to the fact that he was just going to have to deal with _all of the shit today_. Derek stood by the window, backlit by the pale lamplight from the street._ _

__“What did you mean, Stiles, when you were talking about the vampires? A hive mind? Deaton didn’t say anything about this.” He straightened, arms crossed, and the bluish-grey light from outside caught his features in stark relief. Stiles could see pretty well in the dark, he realized. Far better than he ever used to. But he was exhausted, so the realization stirred very little excitement in him._ _

__“Deaton doesn’t always know everything, Derek,” Stiles reasoned. He flopped backwards onto his bed, staring up at the half-formed shapes on his ceiling. He heard Derek shift closer. Stiles sighed._ _

__“They said… _He_ said that I had until the full moon. Then I’d be drawn in. He said it was inevitable.” Derek worked to maintain a steady heartbeat, but Stiles could hear the tiny faltering of his body, trying consciously to remain calm. Stiles appreciated the sentiment._ _

__“They’re lying, Stiles. He was lying to you,” Derek’s voice was hard, and quiet, like a knife’s edge._ _

__“Yeah, maybe. I’ll check with Deaton tomorrow. That’s all I can really do, right?” He turned his face towards Derek._ _

__“Why didn’t you fight back?” Stiles asked. Derek didn’t need him to elaborate. He turned his face away in shame, and Stiles heard a sound from his chest that Stiles didn’t quite understand._ _

__“Derek?” He asked again, moving to sit up. Derek let himself sink down Stiles’ bedroom wall, his knees pulled up close around his nose. That was something Stiles had never seen before, and alarm bells began to toll inside his head._ _

__“Your dad is right,” Derek said. His voice was kind of hitching on the edges of the words, and _oh hell no,_ Stiles was not going to deal with two sets of tears in one day. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t… I wasn’t fast enough, and I let you… I…” Stiles was next to him before he had blinked, his jaw set in a hard line. This was just ridiculous._ _

__“Don’t you _dare_ do this to yourself, Derek Hale,” Stiles hissed at him. His voice shook with intensity. “I will _not see you blame yourself for this._ This-” he waved a hand over his general person- “is not you. This is vampires. This is chance, and bad timing, and _my own stupidity,_ not yours. You did everything you could, Derek, and that’s all that _anyone_ can ask.” He gripped Derek’s hair, forcing him to look him in the eye, and _damn_ he was doing that a lot today._ _

__“I am okay with this, Derek. It’s okay. I can deal with it, just like everything else. But _screw you_ if you think that blaming yourself for this will make anything better.” Derek opened his mouth, shut it again. He looked so vulnerable, and it was such a different thing for Stiles to see that he had to just stop for a moment._ _

__“I just… I didn’t want you to have to deal with it,” he said, simply and quietly. Stiles thought _fuck it_ and drew the man into his arms, and much to his surprise he came willingly._ _

__“Stupid fucking werewolves,” Stiles cursed under his breath, and he felt the warm huff of laughter against his neck. He let Derek shiver against him for a few moments. Derek reached a point where his heartbeat had evened out, but still hadn’t moved away, his head still resting heavily underneath Stiles’ chin. _The man must be really touch-deprived_ , Stiles thought to himself, and then hurriedly redirected his thoughts from that train of thought. He had been long aware that in that path lay madness. He thought back instead to the vampire from earlier. Something about him still seemed off to Stiles. He thought back to both of them, their dishevelled appearance and their pale scars-_ _

__Peter’s words from earlier suddenly clicked into place._ _

__“Hey, Derek?” Stiles asked. Derek went still in his arms._ _

__“Yeah?”_ _

__“Can you check… Would you mind…?” Stiles looked for the right words. Derek pulled back a little bit to look at him._ _

__“…Do I have a bite scar on me?” Derek looked at him in silence, then turned to face him properly. He crossed his legs and cupped his hands around either side of his neck, tilting him from one side to the other. Stiles could feel a lot more things these days, but he was pretty sure that the gentle sweep across his neck wasn’t actually Derek’s intense gaze, but a thumb._ _

__“This is where the wound was,” Derek said, and his voice didn’t wobble or shake. Stiles rolled his eyes._ _

“Yeah, I _know_ where the bite was, Derek, but do I have a scar? At all?” Derek looked again, his heavy brows furrowing in a way Stiles should _not_ be finding completely adorable, stop it.

 

__“Nothing,” Derek said finally. “There’s nothing there at all.”_ _

__“Huh,” Stiles managed._ _

__“What does that mean, Stiles?” he asked._ _

__“I don’t know yet.”_ _

__Derek’s hands remained on Stiles’ neck, his thumbs stroking absentminded little tattoos against his skin, and then he suddenly seemed to collect himself and withdraw. Stiles bit down on the disappointment. That had actually felt really nice. Stiles stood up suddenly, the absence of a head rush registering vaguely, and he turned away._ _

__“Well, I’m going to go to bed,” he said, pulling his shirt over his head and rifling through his pajama drawer._ _

__“Because no offense, but I have dealt with a whole lot of other people’s shit today, and now I just want to sleep. Or do the unconscious thing, because I don’t think what I do technically counts as sleep anymore.” He rolled his shoulders before pulling another shirt on. The sudden intake of air behind him must have been a wince or something from Derek, and Stiles thought nothing of it. He must have been sore from sitting on the floor or something._ _

__“I, uh… Would you like me to stay? I can make sure that you aren’t hungry in the morning, and you know, that you don’t lose control, _not that I’m saying you would or anything_. Or I could, like, keep watch for the vampires, just in case….” His heart beat tripped a little, but Stiles didn’t need it to know that Derek was clutching at straws. He was _rambling_ , for God’s sake, and Stiles smiled a little. Something warm curled in his stomach, some little inkling that sank its roots into him. A sentiment that he had been repeating, over and over to others, but that he only now allowed himself to believe. _It’ll be okay_._ _

__“Sure Derek. That sounds… That sounds good.” He smiled, and waggled his eyebrows. “You can feed me in the morning, oh mighty wolfman.” He almost laughed when Derek’s face flushed in the darkness, but he climbed silently into Stiles’ bed with him, and Stiles closed his eyes with a smile on his face._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new chapter yet, but give me forty-eight hours and there should be something new! This next chapter has a lot in it, so hang in there! :)


	6. There is a Charge, For the Eyeing of My Scars

Stiles woke up alone in his bed. The sun grazed against the sheets, golden and warm to the touch, but the other side of the bed was as cold and vacant as if no one had slept there at all. Stiles realized, with a strange start, that it was the first time he had woken up to the cold, not warmed by the life of another person, since his change. He rolled over, ignoring the pang in his chest. It was whispering thoughts to the back of his mind, thoughts that he both didn’t want to have and didn’t want to investigate. _He didn’t even stick around to make sure you were okay, Stiles. He mustn’t really care that much at all about you. Doesn’t that sting, Stiles? I guess you always knew though, didn’t you._ He batted them away with a mental hand, sighing to himself. He knew that couldn’t be true. Derek had done so much for him already. It was then, as he rolled lazily to one side of the bed, that he caught the edge of a gentle perfume in the air. His instincts pricked up, and he crawled across the mattress. There, next to his phone, stood an innocuous glass of red liquid. Stiles picked it up eagerly, giving it a sniff. It didn’t smell like Derek or Isaac, and certainly not Scott. In fact, it didn’t even smell human. Too… Oaky, Stiles thought to himself. Like the forest. He tipped it back against his lips regardless, the smoothness of it running down his throat easily, but it wasn’t like drinking human. It was like comparing triple chocolate brownies to stale sponge cake; they’re both technically baked, they’ll both fill you up with sugar, but everyone knows which one is ultimately more preferable. It quenched the need he had felt drumming underneath his skin as he awoke, far more than the steak had the day before. He picked up his phone and flicked a message over to Derek.

_[Did you get up early to kill little furry creatures for me?]_

_[Thumper had it coming. Why?]_

Stiles’ lips twitched upwards as he tapped out his reply one-handed, trying to pull his pants on with the other.

_[Naw, thanks man. I knew you were a sweetheart deep under that grumpy, homicidal exterior. >:)]_

_[I live to serve, it seems.]_

Stiles could practically HEAR Derek saying that.

_[I should probably learn to hunt myself. Complete the whole deadly creature thing I have going for me these days]_

He did a little excitement dance when the text came through before he had finished putting his shoes on.

_[I’m free this afternoon.]_

It wasn’t even a question. Stiles was going to take him for what he had. It was just in his nature.

_[Sounds great. My house. Be there or be square.]_

He had a spring in his step as he walked downstairs to the kitchen, where he sniffed out the remaining blood bags. They had been labelled “For Emergencies Only” in red permanent marker, and Stiles hesitated before putting one in his bag. Better safe than sorry, he thought. And this time, he would keep his bag as close to his person as humanly possible. He squeezed his Dad’s shoulder as he left the kitchen, and headed off for another day in the academic grinder. All thoughts of ominous warnings and full moons quietly placed themselves in the far corners of his mind, blissfully untouched.

….

Derek was waiting for him when he got home. Stiles could smell him as he climbed the stairs, his fresh scent clear amongst the older smell on his bedsheets. He had barely dropped his bag on his bed and sat down when Stiles heard his window slide open. Stiles still wasn’t used to being able to _hear_ things like Derek’s clothes rustling as he slipped onto the window, or the gentle scratch of his blunt nails against the hardwood. He was pretty sure that this was the longest running time since he had been caught unawares by anyone, supernatural powers or otherwise. Derek sat on the windowsill, one leg dangling into the room, and watched Stiles with a disinterest that was betrayed by his erratic heart.

“There is a front door, you know,” Stiles said. Derek grunted.

“Doors are for the unimaginative,” he replied, and Stiles snorted. He rolled up from his bed and crossed the room, pressing a hand against Derek’s shoulder with a smile. And he kept pushing. Derek fell the two storeys backwards out of his window, gracefully, landing on his feet, but Stiles knew that he could do that already. Derek looked up at him from the ground below. A single eyebrow travelled up his forehead.

“You coming, Vlad?” He called, and Stiles scoffed.

“Oh, it’s on, wolf boy,” he called back, leaping from the window in a showy arc. He practically heard Derek’s eyeroll as he landed on his feet, turning with a proud little smirk on his face.

“Didn’t even hurt,” he said, running a mock-arrogant hand over his hair and strutting like a peacock. Stiles was worried that Derek was going to strain a muscle in his eyeballs if he kept rolling them that hard. Derek pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You are such a trial. I can’t even remember why I offered to help you with this,” he said.

“It’s totally because you find me attraaactive,” Stiles sing-songed. He was joking, but _whoah_ , did Derek’s heart falter that hard or was it just Stiles’ imagination?

“Come on,” Derek said with a roll of his eyes, and before Stiles could think to ask him about his cardiological patterns the werewolf was loping into the trees. Stiles followed him, treading close to his heels, and Stiles was filled with a new awe of himself. He was keeping pace with a werewolf. _Hell_ , Stiles thought, _I could probably outrun him._ He pushed his muscles faster and further, in a way that he could never have done when his lungs were a necessity and his heartbeat a restriction. He grinned as he heard Derek’s pace pick up and eventually plateau, and Stiles doubled back behind him. He leapt at Derek as he careered past him, tackling the unaware wolf into the underbrush and laughing the entire way. He rolled away quickly, bracing himself on the tips of his fingers and his toes for what he was certain would be a counter attack. Derek rolled to his feet further away in a wary crouch, a patented expression of long-suffering borne on his face.

“We’re hunting _squirrels and rabbits_ , Stiles, not me.” He said, but Stiles had learnt by now the difference between the _you’re a fucking idiot, Stiles_ tone and the _I pretend not to enjoy being around you to save face_ tone. Stiles pouted, and crept closer to the werewolf. Derek was huffing short, quiet breaths of exertion, but he didn’t back away, didn’t break eye contact, as Stiles’ pupils welled up with blackness and his irises drained of warmth. Stiles felt the wave of heat rush from Derek’s body in response, saw the faint blush touch upon his cheeks in the near-darkness. He moved from one heartbeat to the next across the short distance separating them until their noses were a mere hairsbreadth way, Stiles’ sharp fingernails drawing Derek up by his chin.

“Ah, but I’ll bet that disgruntled werewolf tastes much better, Derek,” he cooed, letting a corner of his mouth slide upwards. Derek looked stunned, and was about to retort when Stiles raised a hand. There was something, a kind of soft chitter in the background. Derek followed Stiles’ gaze up into the darkening woodland canopy.

“It’s just bats, Stiles,” Derek said, eyes wide. His voice sounded slightly strangled. Perhaps Stiles had been a bit heavy with the nails grazing along the underside of his neck. Stiles lowered his hand, eyes not leaving the moving shapes above him. Their murmuring surrounded him, an oddly comforting whisper of noise, but it was more than that...

“No, it’s not…” Stiles said. His words came out in a breathless sigh, and he felt the tentative touch of wordless thoughts against his mind, like the soft fur of a newborn rabbit. Stiles stretched his mind out towards it, and felt the welcoming brush of more, similar minds against his own, a chaotic yet harmonious multitude of actions and reactions all decreeing _friend_. A startled laugh burbled from his mouth, and Stiles _felt_ rather than heard the answering chatter from the trees above.

“Stiles, what are you-”

“Shh, Derek, they don’t like wolves very much,” Stiles said to him, taking a step towards the centre of the clearing. Stiles called gently to them, asking them without words to come. He felt a willingness within them, but underneath it was a gentle flow of confusion _help-friend-help-how?-friend-how-help-show-us-friend_ , and Stiles tried to picture what he wanted instead. He felt the image filter into those pressing in upon his, felt their understanding, as hundreds of leathery wings opened as one and descended from the trees. The bats dove in a single dark wave and Derek leapt back in (what he would later deny was) fear. They pulled up at the last minute, curving their small bodies in a hairpin turn, and formed like a school of silvery fish into a dizzying figure-eight around Stiles’ slim frame, chittering and flapping. Stiles met Derek’s wide eyes with a look of sheer ‘holy shit check out what I can do’, and with a flick of a thought sent them surging skywards in a dramatic black column. A single, fluffy bat alighted upon Stiles’ outstretched hand, and he grinned at Derek’s face as he rubbed a finger under its chin. Stiles didn’t really know how he did it, but he pulled his mind _inwards_ and the connections just faded, the solid cloud of bats dispersing through the night air.

“Hey, Derek,” Stiles said, a shit-eating grin already sliding into place.

“ _I’m Batman_.”

Stiles cackled. Derek didn’t.

Stiles didn’t realize why until the glow of the full moon broke over Derek’s face, and the vampire’s words rushed back.

_You’ll feel our pull soon enough. Just wait for the full moon._

Well, shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus! This chapter was god-awful to write, with writer's block hitting me at every corner. Next one should be here far sooner. :) Thanks so much for all of the support, guys!


	7. Like Sticky Pearls

Derek saw Stiles’ change before Stiles even registered it. He felt the moon tug at his own enhanced senses, felt his own primal instincts howling at the gates, but Derek barely noticed them. He was far too aware of the sudden, unnatural stiffness in Stiles’ shoulders, the harsh intake of breath like he had been punched, and the fear that darted into his suddenly empty black eyes. Stiles shuddered from the tips of his toes to his shoulders, and curled over himself with a low, inhuman moan, as though fighting against the tug of a rope. He staggered forward a step, movements jerking and uncertain, and his teeth had elongated and narrowed to deadly points in his mouth. Derek didn’t think. He simply moved forward, snaking his arms around the struggling teen. He pulled him close to his chest, pinning him there, and Stiles struggled against him. His fingers- no, his _claws_ \- scrabbled against Derek’s leather jacket and Stiles hissed like an animal in frustration, his breath heaving in pointlessly rapid gasps. It didn’t take a genius to realize that the horde’s pull had kicked in, and it had kicked in _hard_.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek pleaded, one hand coming up to hold Stiles’ head against his shoulder. He writhed and snarled, trying to turn towards Derek’s hand and snapping his jaws at him.

“Stiles, please. Just listen, Stiles. Listen to my heartbeat.” Stiles continued to pull and squirm against him. Derek went on regardless. He had to _try_.  
“That’s the sound of your pack, Stiles, your true pack. You can choose, Stiles. You are not a monster.” Derek winced as claws sank through his jacket and into his back.

“Stiles, calm down, and focus. Focus on me, Stiles. You’re not one of them. You’re _not one of them, Stiles_.” Derek gritted his teeth as the claws twisted underneath his flesh. His voice drew to a pained growl.

“You’re _mine_ , Stiles. You’re _ours_. Just listen to me, and breathe. Please.” Derek felt Stiles shift marginally, felt his sharp nails retreat from his flesh. Derek continued to murmur to him as Stiles slowly stopped thrashing, stopped growling and hissing. Derek didn’t know how long it took for Stiles’ shoulders to eventually sag against him, and a long, whimpering sigh of air to be released into the crook of his shoulder.

“The… the pull… I think it’s gone now…” Stiles said eventually. His voice was so small, so tentative against Derek’s chest that Derek had to fight the urge to pull him in closer.

“The thing that the vampires told you about yesterday?” Derek asked, and Stiles nodded his head against the leather jacket. Derek stayed silent, partly trying to think everything over, and partly waiting for Stiles to continue. He didn’t have to wait for very long before Stiles drew in a breath.

“They said that the full moon would make me one of them. But it didn’t. Why didn’t it work, Derek?” Derek shrugged.

“I don’t know. You’ve got all of the usual markers for vampirism, Stiles, but some of the things that you’re able to do… I’ve never really heard of before. We’re missing something here.”

“Maybe we should call Deaton.”

“Yeah, maybe.” There was a beat of silence.

“Hey Derek?”

“Yeah?”

“Is there a reason you’re still hugging me?”

Derek pulled away sharply. He pulled his jacket back into place, silently mourning the loss of Stiles’ form against his. He felt his cheeks heat under the force of Stiles’ raised eyebrow and shit-eating grin.

“I, uh, didn’t realise. Sorry,” he said, and he both loathed and adored the smug look on Stiles’ face. Stiles shrugged.

“It’s okay, man, I get it,” Stiles said. Derek faltered, panicking.  
“You’re touch-starved,” Stiles said with a smile. “And I am very huggable, I know that.”

Derek felt the tension seep out of his body. Of course Stiles thought that. He shook off other thoughts, and rubbed the back of his neck with the knuckles of one hand.  
“I, uh, we should get going. The vampires will be expecting you to join them soon, and they’ll start looking for you if they haven’t already.” Stiles’ smile dropped.

“Right, of course, I’ll just- I’ll call Deaton,” he said, almost tripping over himself as he fumbled in his pockets for his phone. They began the walk back in silence, the persistent dial tone of Stiles’ phone harsh against Derek’s overly sensitive ears. He comforted himself in the knowledge that Stiles wasn’t finding it any easier, noticeably wincing and holding the phone away from his face. Derek gave up on holding up a human appearance, allowing his eyes to slip into their luminescent blue and his teeth to lengthen in his mouth. Stiles growled in frustration, and his phone made an ominous crunching noise in his fist.

“Deaton’s not answering,” Stiles said, his stride quickening through the darkened forest.

“Really. I couldn’t tell,” Derek answered, and Stiles shot him a glare.

“Who else do we know that knows shit about vampires?”

“Other than vampires? Pretty much no one.”

Derek knew he wasn’t being helpful, but he could hear the forest coming to life around them and wanted to pick up the pace. He knew that there was no way he could defend them both from any sort of attack in this position. They were too exposed.

“What about Peter? He was the one who asked where my… where the bite was,” Stiles said. “Maybe that’s connected with the bat-thing.” There were lights ahead, through the trees. Derek willed his teeth to recede as they approached humanity.

“Only one way to find out.”

…

“Back from your little date so soon, Derek? I thought you and the Stilinski boy would be out howling at the moon like savages all night,” Peter called. He had their back to them, spread out lazily across the couch, but Stiles could sense that he was fully wolfed-out. There was something about their scents that changed, something that made them smell more earthy.

“We need to talk.” Derek ‘s jaw was tight and his pulse heavy against his throat. Derek had never liked talking to Peter very much. Stiles saw Peter’s head twist around to face them, and heard the trip of surprise in his heartbeat when he caught sight of them both.

“Really, Derek, you should warn me when you’re bringing your undead company home. The scentless-ness kind of creeps me out,” Peter said, ignoring Derek’s statement. Stiles and Derek frowned in unison.

“What do you mean, scentless?” Stiles asked.

“I can smell him just fine,” Derek insisted. This seemed to pique Peter’s interest, and he shifted his face back to human except for his eyes, standing up to approach them.

“Really, Derek? Are you sure?” Stiles didn’t miss the way Derek pulled himself taller as the older man drew forward, nor did he miss the subtle shift of Derek’s footing to put himself between Stiles and Peter. Derek met his uncle’s piercing gaze, and nodded once.

“His smell has changed a little bit since the bite, but he still smells like Stiles,” Derek said. Peter cocked his head to the side, the corners of his mouth tightening in a subtle display of amusement.

“How interesting,” Peter purred. “A quick biology lesson for you, children. One of the most significant features of the undead is that they lose any sort of traceable scent. It’s what makes our dear group of intruders such a bother to find, as you would know, if you hadn’t been busy with _other things_ of late, Derek.” His teeth gleamed under the artificial light of the kitchen.

“You’ve been hanging around our lovely friend Stiles here quite a bit, haven’t you, Derek?”

“I’ve been _helping him_ ,” Derek gritted out.

“Ah yes, but don’t you think it interesting that you are the _only_ person who can actually smell him? I can’t catch a single thing.” Stiles slid his hand over Derek’s wrist just as it made an abortive move at his side. He gripped it tightly, and Stiles could feel the tendons moving in the man’s arm as he clenched and unclenched his fist.

Scott chose that moment to burst through the apartment door. All three of them turned towards him.

“Did I miss anything?” Scott asked, then cocked his head to one side, staring at Stiles. “Dude, why can’t I smell you?”

Peter’s face contorted into the universally accepted sassy ‘told you so’ face, and Stiles decided to intervene.

“We’re not here to discuss… whatever this is, Peter!” Stiles exclaimed, flapping his hands vaguely around the tension-filled room.

“We need information. What does it mean when a vampire doesn’t have a scar from their bite?” Peter’s eyes locked onto his, and he seemed to be enjoying himself far too much.

“ _Finally,_ someone with the right questions. You know, I’m no expert on vampires-” Derek made a derisive snort, “-but from what I can remember, there are two kinds of _you_. The traditionally sired kind, and the unsired kind. Siring entails the biting, and feeding upon, of a victim by a vampire, and then their subsequent return of the feeding process to the victim. Quite a gross interpretation of the whole ‘sharing is caring’ thing, but you get the idea. _Always_ leaves a scar,” Peter insisted, pausing dramatically. Stiles wondered if the man ever took theatre classes. The werewolf relished in the silence for a moment, continuing. “The _other_ kind of siring comes from alternative means. Sometimes it’s magic, sometimes it’s ancient bonds, or the happy alignment of circumstances. You said you were bitten?”

“Yeah, but they never fed me any of their blood. I think I would remember something like that.”

“You didn’t accidentally get some vampire blood in an open wound? On your clothing, perhaps?”

“It was all his blood on the site, Peter, I was there,” Derek ground out impatiently. Peter nodded, shrugging and opening his hands in placation.

“It stands to reason, then, that Stiles is some kind of hybrid. The vampiric metamorphosis was initiated by the bite, but completed by alternate means. I can’t remember all the different ways, obviously, but depending on what it was that triggered the final change you may start to develop powers outside of the conventional fields of ‘accepted lore’.” He paused.

“Since you were partially sired by our charming newcomers, there’s a chance that you will be susceptible to their horde pull. Vampires in groups can develop a powerful hive mind. You’ll have to be careful of that.” Stiles let out a harsh, humourless laugh.

“Thanks for the warning, Peter, could’ve used that earlier,” he said. Scott gave Stiles a questioning look, but he shook his head minutely in the universally accepted _I’ll explain later_ movement. Peter made a noncommittal noise.

“You’re tough. I knew you could push through it. Plus, your pack bonds with your little teenage-werewolf-boy-band here are pretty strong, I wouldn’t have been overly worried. Where is the curly blonde one, out of interest?”

“He’s on his way, he was caught up doing homework at Allison’s,” Scott supplied, checking his phone.

“Ah, of course. Wouldn’t be a proper week without the whole Scooby Doo gang organizing a meeting in our living room.”

“The vampires told Stiles he would join them tonight. They’re going to be looking for him now,” Derek cut in. Stiles squeezed Derek’s arm in silent thanks.

“Well, I am so pleased that you brought him straight back to our home then, Derek, that was some A+ thinking on your behalf, really,” Peter snitted.

“You know, it’s really hard to sleep with all that freaking noise going on-” Cora called as she padded down the spiral staircase. She stopped when she saw them all standing there, and sighed.

“What’s the emergency this time?”

“Stiles didn’t join the vamps and now the vamps probably want to find him and rip him limb from limb,” Scott said helpfully, and Cora vaulted over the railing with a gymnast’s grace, landing lightly on the wooden floor.

“So we get them first, right?” Cora suggested.

“Because that worked so well last time,” Peter said sarcastically.

“Actually, it’s probably the best idea,” Stiles finally stated. Four faces with glowing eyes turned to look at him. He was glad he didn’t have a heart beat anymore, because even after all this time that sight was unnerving as _fuck_. “You guys are all at your strongest _right now_. We don’t know if they can tell whether I’ve fallen in with them or not. Plus, we know how to deal with them better now, right? It’s all to do with silver, sunlight and sheer force?” He pauses for a moment, but no one speaks up. Finally.

“Look, I have a plan. It may not be a good plan, but it’s sure as hell better than anything else we could think of in time. And if we pull it off properly, we could even deal with our friendly neighbourhood infestation of undead psychopaths.” He looked around for a reaction. It was Peter, a small smile on his face like he had a marvellous little secret, who finally spoke up.

“What do we do, Stiles?”

…

Stiles’ plan was simple, and with a bit of luck it seemed to almost everyone that even they could pull it off. Derek clenched his jaw and remained silent throughout the explanation, and Stiles knew there were going to be words had in the Jeep later. Cora and Scott left the loft together, Scott raising his phone to his ear to call Isaac before the door had shut behind him, and Peter had done what Peter usually did and disappeared, leaving little more than the memory of a predatory leer in his place. Stiles sighed, closing his eyes. He felt so terribly tired, and hungry, but there was so much that had to happen before the dawn.

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice was quiet.

“Yeah?”

“Is there a reason you’re still holding my hand?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“That’s okay.”

He let the warmth of the werewolf’s arm slip from his fingers.

“You know, I’m not too happy with your role in this plan,” Derek said, and Stiles turned away towards the door.

“Yeah, well I’m not as breakable as I used to be, Derek,” Stiles replied. A hand caught his arm, halting his movement, and Stiles turned back with an eyebrow raised in resigned question.

“You must be hungry. We didn’t end up catching anything in the forest,” Derek said. His pulse was jacking up, drumming a nervous tattoo onto Stiles’ skin through Derek’s fingers. His primal instincts flared up, and he felt a touch of blackness creep into the corners of his eyes. He tamped down on it, shrugging and brushing at the thoughts like dust on an old coat.

“It doesn’t matter, Derek, I can feed later,” he tried, but the hand tugged more firmly on his arm and he was forced to meet Derek’s eyes.

“No, you won’t. I won’t let you put yourself in danger if you’re not at full strength,” Derek insisted. Irritation tickled against Stiles’ mood like fingers on strings.

“Really, Derek? Then what am I going to feed on, huh?”

“Me.”

Stiles’ brain staggered to a halt, but quickly rebooted.

“You going to fill up a glass, then?” Derek shook his head slowly.

“I trust you, Stiles. You won’t hurt me,” he said, and Stiles stood gaping for a moment as Derek stripped back his jacket, until all that was left was a dark Henley. Stiles licked his lips; at this distance, he could actually _see_ Derek’s pulse in his neck. He moved closer.

“You’re going to need to tell me when to stop,” Stiles warned. Derek flicked his eyebrows up briefly in assent and tipped his head to one side, exposing his neck. Stiles’ fingers snaked up over Derek’s collarbone to rest on his shoulders, and Stiles breathed in Derek’s scent. It was _so_ much nicer up this close, rich and _ever_ so enticing to his senses. Stiles felt like he could drown in it. Derek shivered slightly at the brush of Stiles’ lips against his skin, stony cold pressing tentatively against tingling, pulsing warmth. Stiles reminded himself that this was just Derek being _concerned_ , not anything else. If Derek’s pulse was racing against Stiles’ lips, it was in anticipation of pain rather than anything else.

“This may hurt,” Stiles warned, and Derek huffed.

“I’ve definitely felt worse than-” He hissed in a sharp breath as Stiles sank his teeth into the sweet, pliant flesh under his grip.

There was no way to describe it.

Derek’s taste welled up in Stiles’ mouth and he swore he could hear a chorus of deranged angels in his mind. He could not contain the guttural groan of pleasure as he sucked and worried at the two open points on Derek’s neck, the erratic pulse sweeter and warmer than anything he had drunk thus far. Stiles was pretty sure that the low moan Derek tried to hide was not exclusively due to pain, as well, and the thought provoked a heady spike of arousal. No wonder vampires in films always looked like they were chewing through their victims’ necks. This shit was _amazing_.

Stiles felt the warmth of the liquid slowly spread into his veins, outwards from his torso, until his whole body was ringing with echoes of Derek’s borrowed life. The bite marks were already trying to heal, so Stiles carefully retracted his fangs from the soft flesh in favour of teasing at the marks, milking them for every last drop as they slowly closed over. He supported Derek’s weight as the broader man sagged against him, fumbling at his arms ineffectually.

“Stiles. I think… you should probably…” Derek’s voice had dropped to a low, gravelly roll in his throat, but Stiles knew what he was trying to say. The puncture marks were all but closed, and he reluctantly pulled his lips away, hovering a mere breath above the crook of Derek’s neck. The skin sealed before his eyes, leaving behind a smooth and completely unblemished expanse of warm flesh. Derek was breathing heavily and deeply into his shoulder, his head resting in the joint of Stiles’ neck to his collarbone, but his pulse was steady against Stiles’ fingertips. Derek straightened, turning away quickly, but Stiles caught the way Derek’s icy blue eyes were dark and blown wide. A broad hand wound its way into Derek’s hair as he stalked towards the island bench, throwing open the fridge and drinking orange juice straight from the bottle. Stiles watched the bob of his Adam’s apple, considering, and wondered what that stretch of skin would taste like under his lips, then frantically began reciting the Simpsons and trapezoidal rules in his mind. Because hey, apparently vampires _could_ get hard, if the sudden awkward pressure in his jeans was anything to by.

Figures.

Derek dropped the empty bottle of orange juice into the bin, and cleared his throat.

“If we’re going through with this, we need to get going,” Derek said gruffly, his eyes still avoiding contact. Stiles was amazed that despite his blood loss, Derek was still able to blush underneath his stubble. He let it slide.

“Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look how quickly I updated guys! Aren't you proud? We're so close to the end now!


	8. And I Eat Men Like Air

The drive to the meeting place was silent, Derek watching the darkness slide by with his arms crossed. Stiles had run him through the other half of the plan, the part that relied most upon Stiles, and Derek had insisted that it should only be used a last resort. They had no idea if it would even work, after all, and he hadn’t had time to share with the rest of the group. The tension hung like brittle shards of glass in the air, but it was not focussed upon each other. Stiles could feel Derek’s trepidation rolling from him in waves, the stoic set of his shoulders doing nothing to disguise the unsettled look in his eyes. His jaw tensed and shifted, like he wanted to say something, but he had remained stubbornly quiet when they finally saw lights ahead.  
They pulled up on a heavily wooded bend in the road where several familiar cars had stopped. Faces were thrown into stark relief by the washed-out glow of their headlights; Peter, Cora and Scott now joined by Isaac and Allison. Stiles turned off the car and swung himself from the driver’s seat to meet the assembled group. They were wrapped up in coats and scarves, the night cold despite the promise of summer in the air. Their breath curled in pale twists from their mouths in the darkness. Stiles’ breath didn’t, and he realized with a level of subdued wonder that it was because he had no warmth left in his body to share with the air. Huh.   
Heavy, bulky bags rested near someone’s truck, the contents showing clean, straight lines and wiry cages even through the thick webbed fabric. An assortment of rather strange looking weapons were leaning against the cars, as well; Stiles spied what he swore was Mrs McCall’s metal bat, covered in a thick layer of sticky tape and fancy cutlery. Isaac had a similarly slap-dash weapon in his hand. Allison stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the rest of the supernaturally-endowed group. She looked like porcelain, wrapped up in her dark coat and beanie, the dark bruise colours under her eyes betraying her otherwise alert demeanour. She appeared so fragile, so breakable in comparison to the others, and Stiles felt a strange pang in his stomach at the thought of her coming with them into danger. It was irrational, Stiles tried to tell himself. She was, after all, perhaps the most trained in fighting supernatural creatures. Stiles wondered whether the others still perceived him like that.   
Allison looked at Stiles, her eyes scanning his translucently pale skin and moon-filled eyes with only the slightest sign of unease.

“So you’re changed, huh,” Allison said to him, meeting his eyes. It wasn’t a question. He shrugged, lifting one corner of his mouth in a ‘what can you do?’ expression. She nodded fervently, inhaling sharply as she did so. Stiles had seen her go through those movements many times before, well versed in her reactions to news that shook her. He was reminded sharply of how messed up their lives were. She exhaled slowly through her teeth, controlling it.

“Okay then,” she breathed, her voice hitching slightly. “Cool.”

Stiles paused, waiting to see if she had anything else she needed to say, but she just adjusted the strap of her quiver, fitting it more comfortably over her shoulders. Her piercing eyes never left him, an unsettling action which echoed whispers of repeated training, of long trips in the woods, of hushed words. _Never lose sight of the danger, Allison._ Stiles cleared his throat, uncomfortable with where his thoughts were taking him.   
“So, all of this stuff is your dad’s?”

Allison blinked. 

“Yeah. He hasn’t had much use for it for a while now though, so we don’t really know if it all still works or not,” she said, and Stiles felt the curdled unease in his stomach solidify into the first true knot of fear.

Stiles heard the crunch of the Jeep’s passenger door closing, and a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. The tension eased out through his shoes at the warm touch, soaking into his skin through several layers of shirts and an oversized hoodie.

“Have you guys caught a scent yet?” Derek asked, his tone brisk and grounding. Stiles could do this. It would be okay.

“I haven’t caught anything,” Scott replied, and Peter’s one shouldered shrug echoed the sentiment. The wolves were antsy under the full moon, faces twitching with the effort to keep claws and teeth under wraps in the meantime. Derek took a deep breath, his eyes glowing that effervescent blue, and he shook his head.

“The road’s overpowering anything from the forest, we’ll have to start walking and hope we pick something up on the way,” he said finally, and everyone moved silently to pick up their things. Alison adjusted her bow and quiver over one shoulder, a bulky black bag over the other, and the wolves each collected a bag along with their makeshift armaments. Derek took a moment to hoist the last bag onto his shoulder, the objects inside rattling, and Stiles tried desperately to remind himself that now was _not_ the time to be appreciating the stretch of Derek’s pants across his ass.

They trudged in a group down the slope at the side of the road, descending into the tree line, and the smells of the forest overwhelmed Stiles’ senses for a moment; the presence of night had sharpened his abilities. Stiles could hear the rapid heartbeat of a rabbit hundreds of meters to their right, and the gentle drumming of a deer foraging to his eleven o’clock. The dense, musty leaf litter disguised the scents of the pack beautifully, blending their subtle aromas with the forest as easily as if they had been born and raised there. As if it was where they were meant to be.

And, Stiles thought to himself darkly, it was hiding all of the scents pertaining to the vampires.

It took them ten minutes to reach a place where the slope evened out in what was probably a run off trail for rain. The smell of running, dormant water clung to the damp undergrowth. A chilly gust of air whisked through the small valley, the others pulling their coats tighter around them, but Stiles pricked up. The breeze had brought with it a stray scent, something that simply didn’t fit with the quiet peace of the forest.

It was the smell of human blood.

“That way,” Stiles said, pointing down the run-off trail. The pack turned to him in confusion.

“You sure, Stiles? I can’t smell anything,” Cora asked, her tone uncertain. Stiles nodded vigorously.

“That’s the way. I can smell the blood from here.” He paused, breathed in again. Yep. Definitely that way.

“You guys really can’t smell that?” he asked, and five distinctly furrier-than-usual individuals shook their heads.

“If you can smell it, we’ll follow it,” Derek said finally. They moved in the direction Stiles showed them, Isaac and Scott running a bit ahead of everyone. It would have almost felt like a regular full-moon romp, if not for the charged silence, and the way both wolves kept returning, circling back, making sure everyone was safe. Derek stayed by his side.

The forest floor was treacherous, and Stiles stumbled on a hidden rock. He could have stopped himself from hitting the ground, he knew that, but he didn’t mind the brief shot of pain in his knees when it meant there was a warm, albeit clawed hand, offered to him by a certain individual.

“You should be more careful, Stiles,” Derek said, his words slower as he tried to shift them around his teeth. Stiles rolled his eyes.

The smell was growing stronger, and Stiles would have felt sick at the sheer number of individual scents he could make out amongst the rancid stench, but he had greater things to worry about. He couldn’t fight the ever-present feeling that if Derek hadn’t been with him in the forest earlier, he too could have been contributing innocent blood to that gruesome olfactory monument. He held up a hand to stop everyone at the sight of a lamp through the trees.

“Spread out guys, you know the plan,” Stiles whispered, and five of the six shadows evaporated into the trees. Stiles sighed, turning to the last remaining heartbeat.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Derek murmured, his eyes cast in shadow. “We can come up with other ways.” Stiles mouth twitched upwards weakly in the patchwork darkness, and he fought the urge to do something terribly stupid to Derek’s face.

“No we can’t, Derek, you know that,” he replied. Derek’s hand twitched at his side in an aborted movement, and he bowed his head.

“Don’t die again, Stiles,” Derek whispered. “Please.”

“I’ll do my best,” Stiles smiled ruefully. It was a smile that he hoped looked more reassuring than it felt as Derek melted away to join the others.

Stiles was alone.

But that was okay, he realised.

Because Stiles could do this.

He took a deep, steadying breath, pulled on the woollen gloves Derek had lent him, and built up a staggering, lopsided run towards the light. The sky was starting to pale, ever so slightly, when Stiles burst into the clearing. The vampires seemed to be unsurprised by his appearance, some standing, some sitting on fallen branches and rocks, but all rose to their feet when he stumbled into their midst. Stiles counted twelve in total; five men, and seven women. All were in a similar state of dress as the first vampires he saw on the road, their clothes filthy, torn and blood-smeared. Stiles wondered how they were even able to pass in public as normal; they honestly looked more like animals than people. He arranged his features into what he hoped looked like fear, allowing his eyes to dart around and his movements to twitch and falter in anxiety. Stiles was glad he still had chunks of the forest floor stuck to his knees; it aided the illusion. They watched him curiously as he allowed a small amount of relief to cross his features as he caught sight of them. He had to try plan one, or stall until plan two was able to be implemented.

“We’ve all got to leave,” he called to the creatures before him. Stiles took a step forward, feigning confidence and seeking courage from his belief that for once, one of their plans might work.

Maybe.

“This is Hale Pack territory, and they don’t like sharing with… _our kind_.” He continued. The vampires stayed tightly knitted together, watching him as a killer whale watches a baby seal. He pushed on, undeterred by the silence.

“I tried to lose them in the forest, but they’re probably nearby. You’re all going to have to leave, _pronto_ , if you want to keep your limbs. I can distract them for a while so you can get a clean escape.” Stiles eyeballed the lot of them, daring someone to reply. A woman stepped forward, the others shifting out of her way like water around a rock.

Stiles realized in that moment that hey, vampires probably have alphas, too.

Well, shit.

“That’s quite an entrance, fledgling,” crooned the woman. “I can already tell you’re going to be a handful.” A soft murmur of laughter rose from the vampires, and Stiles felt a flicker of annoyance. He was _sticking to the plan_ , goddamnit.

“I’m sorry, didn’t you hear me? I just told you that you’ve got a pack of freaking _werewolves_ coming for you all, me included. We all need to _go_.” He made an exaggerated flapping motion with his arms.

“I heard you, child. We all heard you. But we aren’t going to do that. Why would we give up front row seats at the most supernaturally-charged place in all of North America?”

“But I _just told you-_ ”

“That a group of teenage dogs are going to come and snap their jaws at us? Please.” She made a dismissive noise. “They’re cannon-fodder, child. The dark sacrifices have been feeding us. We’ve grown stronger. We’ll stay, and we’ll fight, and over their dead bodies we shall claim this territory as our own.” The vampires moved forward behind her, balancing low on their heels as though ready to pounce. He saw fangs extending, and heard the menacing drag of claws against the ground. Stiles felt real panic replacing the fake, and he repeated to himself _trust in the plan, trust in the plan, trust in the PLAN, Stiles._

“I can’t let you do that,” he told her, his face set in determination, and a clawed hand seized him by the shirt. Stiles could smell the sour odour of rotting flesh on her breath as her eyes turned completely white.

“You don’t have a choice,” she hissed, and Stiles felt the faintest touch of her will against his mind. Stiles drove her back, filling his thoughts with pack. Thoughts of Scott, with his lopsided smile; Cora, with her swinging ponytail and penchant for eating cereal after dinner; Isaac, with his puppy dog eyes and his earnest laughter; and Derek, Derek’s knuckles, Derek’s shoulder blades, Derek’s smile in his sleep that Stiles was glad to have seen, no matter the circumstances. Those were the memories, the thoughts, the facts that overcame the last few wisps of power she held over him. He was _pack_. A warning howl rose to their right, and Stiles felt a small smile lift his face as the alpha faltered.

“How-” she started to ask, but there was a yell of   
_“NOW, STILES!”_ and he threw his hoodie over his head, covering the last of his skin as the clearing was set alight from behind him. Stiles sent a silent thanks to Allison’s meticulous dad for buying the highest powered UV lamps on offer as he watched the beta vampires scream, covering their faces in pain. Acrid clouds of smoke billowed in violent plumes from their skin and they stumbled towards the shadows of the trees, hitting each other and tripping in the chaos, but the alpha stood, shaking with fury, and began shifting. Her smoking skin peeled away in raw pink chunks to reveal pure white underneath; her limbs lengthened and needle-like claws sprouted from her fingertips. But it was her face that Stiles focused on, as her lips split apart at the sides, stretching in a jagged dark line from ear to ear to allow two rows of shining, razor-sharp fangs to emerge.

Her limbs coiled, a feral roar echoing through the shrieking and chaos, and she leapt at him. Stiles knew he wouldn’t be quick enough to move out of the way and braced himself for the impact. A dark shape came out of nowhere, colliding with the side of the alpha and sending her off to his right. Stiles saw the dark leather jacket and flashes of blue eyes as Derek grappled and rolled with the vampire. The sounds of the pack’s ambush cut suddenly through the air, guttural growls and harsh whimpers alike, all joined by the high whistling sound of Allison’s arrows. Stiles heard a pained whining sound come from his right that sounded like Peter, and turned in the direction of the noise. He did his best to hold his face in shadow. Or at least he thought he was, until Stiles was hit in the side by a heavy, familiar figure, knocking him over. He followed the momentum of the fall purely by instinct, Derek and he rolling to their feet in tandem. Scott tumbled into the clearing with a howl, vampire clinging to his back, and he must have tripped over a cord in the undergrowth as the clearing descended into darkness. Stiles found himself able to move around without fear, and darted forward to help his friend. An arrow sung past Stiles’ ear, and he heard the vampire’s shriek as it embedded itself in its heart. The vampire fell limp onto the ground, and Scott turned, his blood-red eyes wide and jaw slack.

“ _You shot at me!_ ” Scott hollered indignantly towards the treetops.

“ _I hit the vampire, didn’t I?!_ ” came the shrill reply. The sound of another arrow whistled through the air; Allison obviously had other matters to deal with. Scott’s face ran through a range of emotions and aborted arguments in the space of seconds, and he finally settled on

“ _Not cool, Allison!_ ” before loping off towards the snarls Stiles recognized as Cora. Derek, in the meantime, had launched himself back at the alpha, and was taking throw after throw, hitting tree trunks and trampled ground alike, but leaping back onto his feet for the next round. He was drawing her away, distracting her from her real goal. Around them, Stiles heard the sounds of battle changing towards unfavourable; the silver weapons and lights simply weren’t enough.

“Derek!” Stiles called. “Emergency back up plan?”

Derek swung his claws at the vampire, who weaved out of the way easily. She was agile, for such a large form. 

“Do it, Stiles,” Derek managed as he dodged a thrown rock. Stiles cast his mind out, searching for what he had found only hours before, but they were far away, he didn’t know if they would be able to hear him...

 _“Any time now, Stiles,”_ Derek hollered impatiently as he was lifted by his jacket lapels and heaved into another hard object.

_“Working on it, Derek!”_ Stiles called back, trying to ignore the sounds of the pack slowly losing and focus. There was a triumphant roar, and a sickening crunching sound, and Derek was suddenly lying motionless on the ground. The acute smell of his blood filled Stiles’ nose, drawing him away from his task with a jolt, and the alpha was turning towards Stiles. Her tall, willowy frame stalked slowly towards him, and through her wide mouth words came hissing forth.

“Your plan is failing, little one,” she taunted, and Stiles fought the very logical urge to turn tail and run. “Your friends are dying.”

As if to emphasise the point, Stiles heard a high-pitched bark of fear from Isaac, followed by a low, tremulous howl of agony from Cora.

“Why not just give up now, join us instead?”

A clawed hand swung towards him, but Stiles ducked underneath it like a prize fighter.

“I like my free will, thanks,” he replied, ducking away again as another arm snaked out. There was a minute twitch of uneasiness in the vampire’s mutated features. She clearly wasn’t used to missing. She adapted quickly, changing tactics, and feigned to the right whilst striking out towards his left. Stiles was too fast for her, predicting the movement, and landed a bone-cracking blow to her stomach. She was thrown backwards, hitting the dirt with an animal grunt. Her dark, matted hair fell in front of her face as she slid to her feet like a panther. The vampire moved to his left, and Stiles didn’t understand what she was doing until she had Derek’s limp form, suspended in the air, a clawed hand wrapped around his neck. She pressed her fangs against his flesh in warning, her claws against the other side, and Stiles went completely still.

“How do you feel about free will now, huh?” she called, and Stiles could see Derek’s feet hanging uselessly, inches above the ground. “Call your dogs off, boy, or you and I get to test just how far this mutt’s arteries can spray.”

Cold, fierce anger boiled in his veins. The quiet brush of interested minds curled gently against his, and Stiles narrowed his eyes until they were little more than dark slits of moonlight.

“Wrong move, bitch,” he hissed. He flung his arms out wide, and the alpha’s pale eyes widened as a screaming black tsunami of wings, claws and teeth erupted from the trees behind him. _Not the wolves, protect the wolves, just the cold ones,_ Stiles willed the cloud as they spun through the woods. He got brief, blurry flashes of Isaac and Scott jumping out of the way as the two undead they were facing were torn apart, heard Peter’s surprised laughter as they coiled and spun protectively around him. The alpha dropped Derek unceremoniously against the ground as a torrent of bats descended upon her, hissing and recoiling from them like a cobra from a mongoose. Stiles crossed the fifteen feet between them in a flash, moving behind her and tripping her as she flailed, screaming. The bats followed her down onto the ground, but retreated as a hand closed around her throat. Her eyes shifted back to their human approximation as Stiles stared her down.   
“What are you?” she asked finally, and Stiles smiled.   
“I’m Stiles,” he said, and stepped away to let the bats finish their work.

He swayed on his feet, withdrawing with a swift pull _inwards_ from the thousands of minds he had called upon. A killer mixture of a brain freeze and study headache hit him like a semi-trailer on a highway, and he groaned. The bats continued their tasks for a few moments more without his direction, then scattered like immaterial shadows into the fading darkness. When Stiles looked back, there was nothing left of the alpha except for a few matted strips of cloth. Everything fell silent in the pale blue of the pre-dawn.

It was over.

Scott was the first to emerge from the tree line, puffing and wielding a blood-spattered stick covered in sticky-taped cutlery and what Stiles swore was one of Allison’s necklaces. He had a long, ragged-looking slice along one side of his neck, where the vampire had obviously aimed for his jugular and missed, but the wound was already healing over. His eyes were wide and his face shifted back to human so that he could talk more easily.

“What the hell was that, man? Were you- were you _controlling those?_ ” Scott asked, still breathless. Stiles shrugged.

“I was always good with a bat, Scott, it’s just that now they have wings,” he said, and Scott managed a weak groan. Stiles caught a painfully familiar smell in his nose. He turned suddenly, alarm flaring as he caught sight of Derek’s limp figure lying crumpled upon the ground. He tried to pick out a heartbeat amongst his own frantic thoughts as he moved to Derek’s side. He was on his knees without any conscious thought of wanting to be, gently pulling the man’s form into his lap. Derek’s brow was marred by a heavy gash, spreading from the centre of his right eyebrow down to the top of his cheekbone. Blood was seeping from the open wound and matting in Derek’s hairline. Stiles could feel Derek’s damp hair brushing against his forearm as he cradled his head against his chest. Stiles rocked him gently, as though singing a lullaby, and a soft, forgotten song tugged at the back of Stiles’ mind. He brushed it away, placing a hand on Derek’s cheek instead.

“Derek, hey, come on, Derek. Wake up for me, okay? Come on, buddy, it’s time to go. We got ‘em good, Derek, we can go and have naps at home now. You can even snuggle me, man, I know you’re a snuggler, you just gotta wake up first…” Stiles heard other footsteps enter the clearing and the sounds of aborted questions cut short by shushing noises. Eyelashes fluttered against Stiles’ shirt, and Derek took a long, deep breath. He shivered in Stiles’ arms and opened his eyes a fraction, took one look at Stiles’ face, and closed them again. He rubbed his face into Stiles’ shirt, a satisfied little huff escaping his nose, and when he finally opened his eyes again, it was to a raised eyebrow.

“Hey,” Derek said, his voice hoarse and slurred.

“Hey,” Stiles replied.

“That really fuckin’ hurt,” Derek scrunched up his face in a way that Stile really shouldn’t have found adorable. He schooled his features, fighting a grin.

“I’ll bet it did,” Stiles began. “You gave me quite the scare there. You’ve got to be more careful, Derek, really. You’re just a werewolf, you know. I can’t keep saving your non-immortal ass every time you throw yourself into danger without looking, it’s just a bit ridiculous-”

Derek arched up and pulled Stiles down to meet him at the same time, cutting Stiles’ words off in a wobbly, crushing kiss. It was awkward, and a little too forceful, and Stiles could feel Derek’s heartbeat lurch unsteadily against his lips.

Stiles never wanted it to end.

After god-knows-how-long, Stiles didn’t really care, Derek broke away with a wince. The hand that wasn’t wound in the back of Stiles’ hair came up to tentatively paw at the bruising cut.

“Ow,” he said, an indignant pout forming on his face, and a warm burble of laughter escaped Stiles. Blue eyes met his in a heatless glare, and Stiles didn’t even bother to try keeping his grin in check.

“Um, I’m really sorry to interrupt all… _this_ ,” Peter said, and both their eyes snapped to attention. “But our mighty Alpha McCall finally got his boss on the line, and he wants us to come into the clinic.” Peter turned to the rest of the pack, each looking bloody, filthy, and equal measures of relieved and embarrassed. “And Lahey owes me a twenty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! That chapter was FAR longer than what I was expecting!  
> ...So what did you all think? There's still a couple more chapters, don't worry yet guys, and plenty more sterek to come. I also want to quickly thank my two favorite Betas, Ema and Amanda for their invaluable help. This would basically be dribble without them. :) And no less loved is my dear Bobblewrap, who is happy to fangirl alongside me, and makes for the best idea-sounding-board there is. And I also want to say a HUGE thank you to all of you readers, for the enormous amount of support I have received so far in writing this story, you're all so amazing and beautiful and I just- *dissolves into kissy noises and high pitched squeaking*  
> More soon guys!


	9. Ash, Ash, You Poke and Stir

Deaton clung to a chipped mug full of coffee like a sailor to his lifeline, washed out and pale like faded watercolours in the pre-morning light. To Stiles, the vet’s expression seemed unreadable as he watched their cars file one by one into the car park, like naughty children. The jeep crept in last, and Deaton arched a single eyebrow at its occupants as it passed him by.

Stiles’ hands twitched against the steering wheel as he pulled into a parking space, a nervous rhythm beaten onto the console. He stole what he thought were sly glances at Derek, once again sitting mute and stoic in the passenger seat. Neither had spoken the entire way there. Stiles had silently helped Derek wobble to his feet in the midst of the clearing, and the pack had followed their own scents back to the road. He had, at first, thought that Derek’s lack of conversation was due to shock, or exhaustion. Really, that was perfectly logical.

Right?

But inevitably, as the silence had dragged on and pried at the darkened places in his mind, Stiles found himself questioning everything that had happened.

The kiss, Stiles knew, had been both a realization and a confirmation for him; of his own feelings, and their definite progression onwards from the mere _platonic_.

But what if Derek didn’t feel that way? What if that moment was simply the result of the fleeting effects of werewolf concussions, or relief that everyone was alive? Maybe Derek was sitting in silence because he was clutched in the throes of inner turmoil, regretting his decision as soon as he realized that Stiles was _Stiles,_ and that nothing could ever change that? He sat there, one hand drumming against the wheel, the other against his knee, as he prepared to be let down, and formulated ways to brush it all off.

If Derek needed to, Stiles was willing to make it seem like a joke, like they were only messing around; like it had just been the _heat of the moment_. He pressed his lips together tightly and took a quiet, steadying breath. He could do that for Derek, if that was what he wanted.

That would be okay.

A warm hand wrapped around his, pinning it down and stilling its movement against the wheel. Stiles jerked back into the present, realizing suddenly that the car was stationary and parked. He wondered how long he had been sitting there for. _Here we go,_ Stiles thought, _he’s going to start letting me down gently. Don’t fucking cry._

“Stop freaking out,” Derek said, his voice low and his eyebrows raised.

Stiles’ brain ground to a halt. 

Those were not words he had been expecting.

Stiles opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, pulling an indignant face. It surprised him that Derek was able to catch him out so often.

“I’m not freaking out, Derek,” he said, kicking himself internally for the way his voice cracked at the beginning of the sentence, “why the hell would I-”

“I meant it,” Derek poured out, cutting him off. He wore a pained expression, one that Stiles had seen before, at times when he hadn’t been quick enough to grasp a concept that Derek had thought was obvious. It meant that whatever Derek had to say had to come out quickly, in a rush, or not at all.

“I meant it, and I _mean_ it, and none of _this_ has changed that,” waving his free hand in the air with a frustrated gesture. Stiles got the idea.

“I just…” his face contorted itself into a rapidfire milieu of emotions as Derek tried to find the right words.

“I’m sorry if I’ve misread this,” He continued. His eyes raked across Stiles face, settling on his eyes.

“I care about you, Stiles… I care about you a lot. And if you don’t want that, that’s fine, we can pretend this never happened. I will do that, but that is not what I want.” He took a deep breath, as though trying to further steady his already-stony composure.

“I want you.”

Whoah.

For the first time, Stiles was glad he didn’t need to breathe. He nodded, mute, eyes wide and human, trapped in a deadlock with Derek’s. Derek’s hand still lay over the top of his, and he could feel the man’s heavy pulse through his fingertips. He wondered whether Derek had done it on purpose. Perhaps he knew, somehow, that Stiles would have to know for certain, knew that to Stiles words couldn’t be enough.

Derek’s heartbeat was fast with terror, but as honest and steady as a metronome.

“Okay?” Derek asked. It was more than a word in that moment; it was a question, and an affirmation. Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat, and breathed out a long, heavy breath.

“That’s the most I’ve ever heard you say in one go,” Stiles said weakly, and Derek gave a startled huff of laughter.

”You must be rubbing off on me,” Derek replied. Stiles knew what he wanted to say, felt it burning in his stagnant veins, but even as he reached for them he found that he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he threaded his fingers into the short, dark hair at the base of Derek’s neck and drew him forward, pressing their lips together gently, searchingly. Derek tilted his head to the side to get better access to Stiles’ mouth and Derek’s free hand came up to cradle Stiles’ face as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. Derek’s blood pounded against Stiles’ lips, and his tongue chased the warmth of Derek’s body, pressing into his mouth. He felt a dark rush at the soft sound Derek made, tasting it upon his tongue as he opened for Stiles. Derek was letting him take what he needed, letting him _show_ Derek just how much he wanted this.

Stiles pulled away far too soon for his own liking, but they had a sleep-deprived vet to explain themselves to, and frankly Stiles was ready to crawl into bed and stay there for the rest of the week.

The prospect of perhaps being _joined_ in his horizontal endeavours sent a nervous bolt of excitement through his spine.

Derek breathed out heavily only inches away from Stiles, tension seeping out of his frame, and a small, tentative smile curled at the edges of his lips. They were soft, and kiss bitten, and _damn_ Stiles could get used to seeing that up close. Derek placed a hand against his back as they walked towards the clinic, and Stiles’ face curled into an untempered and slightly stunned smile. Deaton said nothing as they passed him. 

Everyone was gathered around the examination room like a still life tableau when Stiles and Derek entered the room. Now that the adrenalin had left their systems, Stiles was finally able to see just how tired everyone was. Even Scott and Isaac, with their heightened healing and endurance, had heavy rings under their eyes. Stiles could see the way the veins pressed close against their translucent skin from across the room. Judging from the soft huffing sound, Stiles was pretty sure that Isaac was asleep against Scott’s shoulder.

Allison was curled over herself on one of the benches against the wall, her eyes hooded and glazed. Her fingers clenched and unclenched restlessly against her arm, as though feeling for her absent weapon. Peter was checking on a vicious set of jaw marks lining the inside of Cora’s right arm, her lip curled up in a wince despite his careful efforts. None of them looked up when they entered the room, so Stiles and Derek moved to an unoccupied stretch of wall. Stiles leant back against a pet food poster, the sudden weight of the night encroaching upon him all at once like someone had asked him to hold a semi-trailer up above his head for them while they went to get snacks. He could have gotten everyone killed. He could have been wrong about the vampires, or the lights could have been shorted out, or the. Derek pressed his arm against Stiles, and Stiles was struck by the revelation that _hey, I guess I can do that now_. He let himself lean into Derek a little. He barely fought back a pleased purr when Derek returned the push. Deaton’s coffee cup made a sharp metallic _clang_ as it hit the surface of the examination table, and seven faces lifted up sharply.

“So,” Deaton said, his eyes scanning the room. “Does someone want to share with the class?” Stiles didn’t really know where to begin; it was Scott that finally took the reins, lifting his head half-heartedly from its resting place on top of Isaac’s. He cracked a single eye open as he answered.

“The vamps are gone now. We tried to get the vamps to leave. They weren’t going to. So we fought them. None of us are really badly hurt. Also Stiles can control bats.” Finished with his summary, Scott’s head dropped back onto Isaac’s, who made an indignant noise but didn’t wake up. Deaton raised an eyebrow, and turned to Stiles.

“You’ve missed quite a bit, Doc,” Stiles said meekly.

“Apparently. Care to elaborate for me?”

Stiles ran Deaton through the last 24 hours of his unlife; the first bat encounter, the horde’s call, Peter’s information, the fight. Deaton’s expression remained as inscrutable as ever throughout, and he only looked away from Stiles when Derek interjected to add a detail or two. When Stiles ran out of story, the sun was casting an orange glow through the windows and Deaton had the smallest quirk of amusement in the corner of his mouth.

“Well that’s quite a story, Stiles,” he said finally, and Scott perked up from his resting place. “If only you could have all let me know sooner, I could have helped provide a slightly more _accurate_ illumination upon your new… Skills.” It seemed that everyone suddenly arose from their exhausted positions, eyes visibly brightening and shoulders tensing. Stiles couldn’t really blame them. He’d put on quite a show, and they all deserved to find out how he was able to pull the metaphorical rabbit from the hat. Deaton leant closer over the examination table.

“So you are already aware that there are two forms of vampires, the hybrids and the pure-formed ones.” Deaton said. He paused, and Stiles made an inarticulate flapping motion to beckon him on. Deaton raised an eyebrow, and Stiles felt his lip curling up slightly in frustration.

“I didn’t really suspect anything out of the ordinary when you came in the other night. You’d been bitten, you’d risen, it had seemed like a regular sort of vampiric transformation. It’s the lack of scars that really tells me that this was anything but.” Deaton looked around at everyone, his eyes hovering over Derek briefly. The corners of his mouth tugged upwards.

“There is a Romanian folktale that tells of a werewolf who took a human mate by her side. They lived for many years happily, and the werewolf was a kind and selfless leader of her pack, until they ran afoul of some vampires. Whilst the werewolves were preoccupied with the full moon, the vampires entered their camp and razed everything to the ground. They left the werewolf’s mate for dead, and by the time the pack had returned it was too late. It was said that the grief of the werewolf was so powerful, and her selfless love so strong, that when she sang for him to return to her, he did. When he awoke, he conjured clouds of bats to carry them to the vampires, and cut them down where they stood.”

Derek had gone deathly still next to Stiles, but he didn’t really take much notice. Deaton watched carefully as he tried desperately to reorganize his brain around this information.

“I always thought it was a metaphor or mistranslation,” he continued, “but clearly, when the circumstances arise…”

“…People can be raised from the dead like freaking Disney princesses?” Stiles finished, incredulity riddling his voice. Deaton shrugged, nodding. They mulled it over in silence.

“That is so lame,” Cora said finally, but Peter jabbed her with an elbow and continued to smile smugly. Everything made startling sense, really, more than Stiles ever really thought it would, but…

“I still don’t understand,” Isaac insisted, a puppyish frown on his face, “none of us are mated to Stiles….” Quiet sniggering filled the silence that followed.

Oh.

“Behold, Derek Hale, the paragon of selflessness and magical unrequited pining,” Peter announced, and the sniggering hoisted itself into the realm of full blown laughter.

“Fuck you all, I _am_ selfless,” Derek tried, but the sarcastic comments continued to be thrown about. Stiles turned towards Derek. His thunderous expression and oddly adorable blush spoke of his mortification.

“Derek? Did you know that I’m your… That we are…?”Stiles fought back the urge to either smile uncontrollably or rip out his vocal chords with his finger nails. It was a tough battle.

“I… May have had my suspicions…” Derek’s voice was halting, and he looked at Stiles with uncertainty. “But I didn’t know whether it would be reciprocated?” And god _damn_ if the way his voice had risen slightly at the end didn’t send all of Stiles’ borrowed blood rushing out of his head into other areas. Stiles growled low under his breath.

“You _so_ owe me, Fido,” Stiles hissed, only loud enough for Derek to hear.

“Do your worst, Nosferatu,” Derek replied, and Stiles bared his teeth.

“Challenge fucking accepted.”

…

Deaton kicked them all out of his clinic half an hour before opening time, the laughter still making a faint comeback every now and then even as they climbed back into their cars and left one other. Stiles collapsed onto his bed, wriggling happily on top of his sheets. 

“I’m never leaving you ever again, bed,” Stiles moaned happily into the pillows as Derek pulled the curtains closed. “Derek will catch me fluffy creatures for the rest of my eternal life and I will begin my transformation into Gollum, all in the comfort of your sweet fluffy embrace.” “In your dreams,” Derek huffed, cuffing him over the ear and smiling as he headed for the shower. Stiles didn’t want to have to explain the bloodstains on his sheets, even if his dad was still being pretty damn accepting of the whole vampirism affair. Plus, regardless of werewolfy powers, sweat is sweat and not conducive to comfortable snuggly times.

Stiles rolled over and stared at his ceiling. As his eyes scanned over the empty space over his head, he wondered what this would change now about his relationship with Derek. What would be different? They already hung out together all the time, they had been sharing Stiles’ bed for several days already with no indication of that changing, and Derek’s sense of personal space had always been sketchy at best. Heh. Maybe it should have been clearer to him earlier.

His mind wandered, but he rolled over as Derek returned to the room, the heat of the shower still clinging to him in a comforting aura of shampoo and warmth. The water clung to Derek’s hair and left it sticking up at odd angles, and Stiles let his eyes wander down from this hair to the way the water droplets had pooled along his collarbone. He had returned to his underwear, but clutched a bloodied wad of fabric in his right hand, which Stiles presumed was his shirt, and his jeans in the other. For the first time, Stiles was able to truly appreciate the hard lines of Derek’s body, the exact roll of his shoulders and the sharpness of his hips. Derek stopped walking, and Stiles knew that he would be blushing right then if he could, but he couldn’t stop raking his eyes across the form in his doorway. He dragged his eyes up to meet Derek’s, where an arched eyebrow and a blue glow awaited him.

“I’m going to borrow one of your t-shirts, and you’re going to wipe that ridiculous smile off your face before I do it for you,” Derek said, picking his way across the bedroom floor and stooping to pull a shirt out of one of the many clean laundry piles. Stiles only grinned wider, and rolled to the side like a cat to pull off his shoes. He shimmied out of the top few layers of shirts and jackets, and was about to strip down to his boxers when Stiles was pulled backwards. Arms burning with heat encircled him and drew him in close to a solid chest, and Stiles felt warm breath against his neck as Derek nuzzled closer. He relinquished an arm briefly to pull up the blankets around them, but it was back around his chest like a vice within seconds.

“Wow, Derek, protective much?” Stiles laughed quietly.

“You smell like vampires,” he mumbled against Stiles’ skin. Stiles felt his voice vibrate against his back, low and sleepy.

“I have no idea why that would be, it’s not like we just risked our lives facing down a shit tonne of them or anything-” a pillow was shoved over his head, and Derek chuckled as Stiles made muffled noises of indignation.

“Go to sleep,” Derek whispered, and Stiles could feel his smile on the back of his neck as he slipped into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's block. I apologise profusely, everyone, I know how annoying it can be to wait around for ever. I'm a horrible human being. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you to everyone for your tremendous support and kudos! It has certainly helped me push onwards. If anybody is interested at all, I also dwell on tumblr under the name pinkbomberjacket (pinkbomberjacket.tumblr.com) and I post fanart for pretty much anything. Requests are always open there. 
> 
> Next chapter real soon! Promise! We're almost done guys! :)


	10. The Big Strip Tease (Gentlemen, Ladies)

The strange emptiness clung around Stiles yet again. He was getting used to this state, adjusting through familiarity to the silence and the dark and the void. It didn’t really feel… Restful, though. Stiles wondered, in the sluggish depths of his mind, whether he would ever feel peaceful again.

Had he ever really felt peaceful before, though?

The thoughts scattered from his stagnant mind like shadows at the promise of dawn when it came. The sound, warped and wavering as though being heard from deep underwater, murmured around him. Every night it had danced enticingly around the very edges of his sleep-state like a half-forgotten spectre, close enough to trouble him but never enough to recognise, a question that refused to resolve itself.

Stiles was so goddamn sick of questions.

“Hey!” he called, his voice echoing as he swung what he hoped were his arms in the empty black. “What are you?”  
The noise, no, _the song,_ he realised, grew a little louder, and Stiles strove towards it like a diver towards the moonlight above. The low, wavering notes suddenly felt ever so familiar, the cadences recognized with a knowledge born from years of carefully collected interaction and study. A memory was stirring and he reached for it, slipping even as he tried to draw it forward. There was something so very raw, and sad, and beautiful about the song, and Stiles knew that he _recognised that voice,_ that he simply _had to know it from somewhere_ -

Stiles eyes blinked open, and clarity rushed through his body like fresh blood. A chink of afternoon sunlight traced dust motes in dappled gold, and the blankets rustled around him as he turned to face the man in his bed. For once, Derek wasn’t clinging to him like a limpet, one hand resting upon Stiles’ pillow and his sleeping face turned towards him. Stiles took the opportunity to just _look_ at him. Derek looked so much younger in Stiles’ bed, the perpetual scowl smoothed from his features and replaced with vulnerability. Derek was so very good at hiding it all beneath an armour of leather and attitude. It was humbling to know that he could let his guard down around Stiles.

Stiles wanted to trace his fingertips over his cheekbones, to see if they really could cut glass, he wanted to taste Derek’s lips again to see if he still tasted like the forest and ash, he wanted _so many things_ from this one person that he couldn’t even think straight. Most importantly, he needed to verify one thing with him.

“Derek,” he said, nudging him with his hand. A little frown twitched across Derek’s features, but he didn’t stir.

 _“Derek,”_ Stiles hissed, louder, but he didn’t move. Time for a different tactic.

No one ever expects the pillow inquisition.

Derek sprung to consciousness like a bat out of hell with the first hit, and with a feral growl he launched himself at Stiles. Stiles tried to dodge Derek with a shriek, but his feet were tangled up in the blankets, and he found himself pinned to his own mattress and grinning up at a wild-eyed, snarling Derek. His whole body was taut and ready for battle.

“Didn’t your dad ever teach you not to wake sleeping animals?” Derek growled around too many teeth. Stiles ignored the twitch in his groin, because _wow, kinky much_ , and attempted to inject some more “shit-eating” into his current grin.

“Would have done it way sooner if I’d known it would be this fun,” Stiles insisted, and Derek relaxed a fraction. Such a perfect opportunity would never present itself again, and Stiles took it, using Derek’s own weight to roll him into his back. Stiles straddled his hips and leant forward to rest over Derek’s chest as the man stared up at him, eyes hooded and lips parted in poorly concealed surprise. He watched as Derek’s eyes tracked their way down Stiles’ body, and heard the shift in his heartbeat. But Stiles had other things to focus on right then.

“I need to ask you something,” Stiles continued, and Derek’s eyes snapped up to Stiles’ face. Stiles rested his hands across Derek’s chest, and his chin upon those.

“Whatever you want,” Derek replied. Stiles hands twitched underneath his chin. _Now or never, dude,_ Stiles’ brain told him. _Shut the fuck up, brain_.

“When I was, uh… Dead,” he started, and Derek visibly flinched. “There was all this darkness, and I was so lost, but then… There was this noise, and I heard it… It was a song…” Derek had gone still beneath him. Stiles took a deep breath, met his eyes.

“Were you singing to me?”

They sat in perfect silence for a moment.

“It, uh, it was a lullaby my mom used to sing around the house,” Derek mumbled, and Stiles felt his voice reverberate through his hands. Stiles’ throat was closing up.

“You… Were singing a lullaby to me?” Stiles didn’t really register the way his voice seemed several tones higher than usual. Derek was far too distracting at that moment, fidgeting uncomfortably underneath him.

“It just seemed like the right… Thing to do..? I’m sorry I-” Stiles launched himself at the man before he could finish his sentence.

“You- Stupid- Bastard-” Stiles said between desperate kisses. His hands tangled themselves in the back of Derek’s hair. It was terribly difficult to both grin and press his tongue down Derek’s throat, but he did his best.

“You freaking- Rapunzelled me back- from the _dead_ \- and then you try to fucking- _apologise for it_ -”

“Won’t happen again,” Derek gasped against him. He moaned against Stiles’ mouth, his hips bucking up against Stiles involuntarily, and-

Oh my _god_.

That felt _damn good_.

“Oh fuck _yes_ ,” Stiles breathed against Derek’s lips, and suddenly everything began to move surreally fast.  
Derek raised his arms obediently as Stiles sat up and tugged at Derek’s shirt. Stiles felt Derek’s abs tense against him as he then sat up to return the favor. Derek’s lips latched onto the side of Stiles’ neck, his hips rolling against him, and Stiles whined.

“Dude, I’m in pain here, get me out of these _fucking jeans already_ ,” Stiles tried, his nails, no, _claws_ digging into Derek’s shoulder. Stiles felt a hand come down to cup his dick through his pants and he jerked against it. A small huff against his shoulder and Stiles sank his claws in a little deeper in irritation.

“ Freaking vampires,” Derek hissed, his teeth tracing a wicked smile against the meat of Stiles’ shoulder as his thumb grazed over Stiles’ jeans. The top button popped open, and Stiles felt the zipper coming undone as suddenly _oh shit there’s a hand wrapped around Stiles’ dick and it’s not his own._ Stiles let out an inhuman whine as Derek’s fingers curled around his length and gave him a single, smooth pump.

“Oooooooh shit,” Stiles breathed, and his hands scrabbled uselessly for purchase over Derek’s shoulders as he dragged his thumb over the head. Derek’s heartbeat was galloping as Stiles whined under his ministrations, and through the delirious fog of _so good, oh my god_ Stiles remembered the desperate stuttering of Derek’s hips underneath him. He wrapped a hand around Derek’s neck, fingers resting over the drumbeat of Derek’s pulse, and let the other slide beneath Derek’s waistband. Stiles would have grinned in smugness at the way Derek’s whole body _jumped_ under his touch, because _hey, I made Derek do that, that was me,_ but Derek’s thumb had been tracing circles over the head of his dick and as he had moved he had _pressed it in hard and oh god that was just so damn good_.

“Derek, please, I’m going to…” Stiles’ head rolled back, baring his neck. It was all he could do to keep his own hand moving across the thick length of Derek.

“Shit, Stiles…”

They both searched for each other’s lips as Stiles spilled across Derek’s hands, shuddering even as Derek continued to pump him, and Derek followed him only a few strokes behind.

Stiles sat, utterly spent, straddled across Derek’s lap with his head resting on his shoulder. Derek reclined against the headboard, whole body relaxing into the afternoon. Stiles was the one who broke their silence.

“So. Mates, huh?” He mumbled into Derek’s ear.

“Yup.”

“Which basically means we get to do this forever?”

“Pretty much.”

They lapsed back into a satiated silence, and after cleaning each other off with a couple of wipes and a lot more teasing, Derek tucked them both back into Stiles’ bed. Stiles snuggled up close into the crook of Derek’s arm, pressing the entire length of his bare chest against Derek’s side, and Derek started.

“ _Shit, Stiles,_ I never realized you were so cold,” he said, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Dude, I’ve been dealing with your hairy lunar PMS for years, I think you can cope with sleeping with an ice block.”

“Garlic breath,” Derek muttered.

“Fido,” Stiles returned.

And as Stiles lay there, listening to Derek’s steadying breaths as he gently dozed underneath him, Stiles couldn’t help but think that yeah, this is an alright way to spend an eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oop, there you go. Warm fuzzy finale and porn, what more could you want?  
> I just want to quickly thank everyone who has been so supportive of me throughout this, bobblewrap(tumblr), checkonjack(tumblr), and euphemistic(AO3)/uhurahara(tumblr) especially for proofreading this for me on CHRISTMAS DAY, of all days. Seriously guys, her blog is one of my favorites, you really should go and check it out.  
> Merry Christmas everyone, thank you for everything. This has been so much fun. *takes bow*.  
> Oh, and if anyone else is interested, I mentioned it before, but I am on tumblr under the name pinkbomberjacket, and I post mostly original fanart and ficlets, and I always take requests. :) Adios!


	11. Art Work

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly an exercise in multi-perspective writing for me, and shameless indulgence in my obsession with Vampire!Stiles. Hope y'all are enjoying it.  
> More to come soon, hopefully beta'd too. :)


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